


Drag You By Your Feet

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 80's Music, A lot of people need to atone to be honest, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apologies, Arguing, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Baby Teddy Lupin, Banter, Bickering, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Blaise Zabini is master of sass, Blood and Injury, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute Teddy Lupin, Dark, Dark Comedy, Dark Past, Dealing with toxic situations, Death Wish, Discourse, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Gen, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry accidentally eavesdropping, Harry has a hero complex but it's not exactly about him, Harry has no idea what he's doing, Harry is a proud godfather, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hugs, If you have concerns about my descriptions &c., Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by student teaching, Letters, M/M, Malfoy needs to atone, Massage, Muggle Culture, Nausea, Neville Longbottom is a Good Friend, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Harry, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Photographs, Please specify and offer constructive suggestions via your comments thanks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professor Harry Potter, Reconciliation, Rubeus Hagrid's Hut, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Severus Snape Bashing, Stubborn Harry Potter, Survivor Guilt, Swearing, Teaching, Teenage brains are interesting places, The Marauder's Map, The dichotomy of good and evil - is there such a thing really?, Therapy, Triggers, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, What you learn when you make it out alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 37,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: It's right rotten, being the Boy Who Lived (and Died and Returned to Life, if one wants to get all pedantic) when you have to go back to Hogwarts another year especially, having to deal with everything that has happened and ended, and wondering what is going to begin. If anything will, or can.And then in the spirit of inter-house unity and whatnot, the Headmistress and head of one House seems to disregard seven years of antagonistic behaviour between two particular people and rooms them together.Worse than that, or more work, at least, she has another request.It is all more than Harry James Potter has bargained for.(Or, the time a teaching request was coupled with a Gryffindor-Slytherin room assignment, which forces Harry to be a professor AND dorm mates with Malfoy for a year)IMPORTANT NOTE: This story deals with issues including past abuse, self-harm, self-loathing, intense reactions/aspects of post traumatic stress disorder, and other possible triggers. Please read responsibly, and take care.
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Draco Malfoy & Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley & Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley & Rubeus Hagrid, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter, Millicent Bulstrode & Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall & Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Rubeus Hagrid & Harry Potter, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Teddy Lupin & Andromeda Black Tonks
Comments: 167
Kudos: 80





	1. In the Mornin', You Go Gunnin'

Harry stares at Professor McGonagall. 

He'd like to think his reactions are pretty natural, for a wizard. A person, even. No matter what someone has been through, there are still some ideas that stop you dead in your tracks and just make you balk in an unrepentant, ironclad "no."

All Harry can muster up in his gobsmacked state is "...Are you serious about this, Professor?" 

"Incredibly serious, Mr Potter." 

*** 

He had made it on the train, with all his luggage from the incredibly subdued Burrow that morning, feeling how thin Mrs Weasley felt as she kissed him on the cheek, and not being able to look at Ginny as she climbed onto the train after Hermione and Ron. The train feels so empty, as about half of the people typically on it seem to be missing. Or rather, they are, and those who were around for their seventh year last term are on the whole grumbling over having to retake classes. But, as the interim Headmistress had said in her letter to them all -

_This is an extraordinary time and yet we must not forget what may seem ordinary, yet needful. To that effect, not one of you completed, therefore none of you passed the final examination that officially graduates you from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Therefore I shall see you in the fall._

Amongst other things she had attached the requisite supplies for a final year, and with a heavy heart Harry had gone round to Diagon Alley the day before. He hadn't come to the Burrow until today, been dropped off in his cousin's creaky little car and waved Dudley off before there was any possibility of unpleasantness.

He'd gone back to the muggle world after the war, so to speak; had no idea where he was going to live. Ron had offered for him to stay with them at the Burrow, but Harry still feels an immense weight of responsibility for everything and everyone the Weasleys lost. There's a huge hole in that family right now, and he couldn't bear to intrude on their grief. That's what he told himself, and perhaps he'd only imagined the relief in Ron's face when he said he'd find something, see Ron September first, yeah? And tried not to think about Hermione staying round with them, as she had probably just as little to go back to.

But when he'd got to Privet Drive, he'd found something waiting on the wall behind the trash bins where he'd used to hide from Dudley and his gang. He doesn't know what made him notice it, looking like a sort of cash box, but without attracting attention he opens it with his wand and takes out ...a letter, scrawled on front in pretty lousy handwriting, though not so poor he cannot read: _To Harry. From Big D._

Freezing in place and wondering if he should have asked the cabbie he'd driven with to stay a mite, Harry rips open the letter to read his cousin's scrawl.

_'Dear Harry,_

_Dunno if you'll be coming back by the place. We stayed at that safe house til end of what happened with your magic folks. Mum and Dad hated it but I thought it was alright. More posh than how we ever had you when you were round ours. Which, know it comes too late, but I'm sorry about that for the record._

_I'm out on my own now, was sending out for a place to live for this school year. May go to uni, dunno about my grades, but things made me get out of the house. Dad was miffed but proud, I think, and Mum's just going to miss her ickle Diddykins she says. Anyway. You likely don't care about that, but I've got me new address written here if you ever want to come round. I've an extra room. Don't worry, it's same size as mine and you can stay or not, as you like._

_Dudley'_

True to what he says, there is an address written below, and Harry debates going to the door and saying something to his aunt and uncle, yet as he walks around the bin after closing up the container on side of the house with a number four on, sticking Dudley's letter in his jeans pocket, he sees his aunt and uncle framed in the window just next to the front door.

He isn't clear how long they have been standing there for, watching him. He looks back at the hulk of the house and through it at all the years they had kept him here and put him down and made him say he was going to make no noise and pretend he didn't exist, to be swallowed up by Dudley's old grey clothes in primary school and then be shut up for the summer, every single summer. Yet he'd made it, and he decides yes, he is going to go and see Dudley. Why not? In this scenario at least, unlike every year prior, he is able to immediately leave under his own power.

Harry raises his hand to the Dursleys and turns on his heel deliberately, leaving behind that house and all its memories. Surely he can call for another cab on a phone, Mrs Figg might would lend hers.

In any case, he doesn't once look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers, this is a bit of inspiration that hit me today, and I will come back to it after concluding my previously-begun Harry Potter piece. 
> 
> As it is, please feel free to let me know what you think of this - an eighth year at Hogwarts, as an educator myself, intrigues me.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	2. For the Man Who Stole Your Water

Harry manages to deal with shock and a hug and tears from Mrs Figg "you call me Arabella, you've grown up so, dear" but as soon as she starts to talk about You-Know-Who being gone, and how things are so much better now, Harry balks and stands, shooting upright from the seat she'd given him at her table and cannot finish the cake she offers him (not at all stale this time, it's actually very good). But hearing about the state of the world again just makes him remember what was lost, all that was lost in order for him to get here. 

So he thanks her, and says he's sorry, but he's got to get a cab and go visit Dudley - does she know anything about what happened with the Dursleys that got him to live on his own? Anything Harry ought to know? And Mrs Figg - Arabella - gets all serious and says she doesn't know how things work with muggles "but your cousin got it in his head his parents were controlling his life. After they were taken off to be safe, it was. Something must have happened when they were being protected from You-Know-Who. I suppose you'd have to ask him, I'm afraid I don't know anything else but that. He said he was getting a flat and ended up heading on. That's all."

Harry thanks her and calls for a cab, and deals with more tears and the "I saw you grow up but I never imagined -" and he gives her a hug and thanks her for, well. For liking him really, and the cab comes. He gives out Dudley's address, which is in town.

He expects a posh place, honestly; Dudders always got the best of everything, and so Harry is truly shocked when he gets out at what looks like little student lots. Place even less fancy than that (which he suspects says a lot, Harry hasn't the most complete grasp of specific facets of adult life in the muggle world such as moneymaking) but the lobby is rather dingy and there's this ancient buzzer he has to press - not even to come up, just to say who he's visiting and so come inside - and the lift looks more than a bit dodgy so Harry climbs the creaky lopsided stairs.

But the door of Dudley's flat is freshly painted and everything looks clean inside, which he sees behind his cousin after knocking once and hearing shuffling. Then opening the door is Dudley, his hair a little longer than Harry recalls. It's almost curly, and he's still got the pudge in his face, but his body is solid, least as much muscle as fat, and his eyes hold no more of the cruelty or challenge that they had for so many years. Now he looks... nervous. "'Lo," he says. "I see you got me letter."

"Hi Dudley, yes, I did." Harry shifts his feet a bit, wondering what his cousin is going to say about it, but

"You need a place to stay then? Might as well come in," and he opens the door wider without any snide comments, saying nothing, actually, nothing but "You... Got your wand?" He asks almost nervously after shaking Harry's hand and dropping it. Harry's hand goes to where he keeps it.

"Yeah, always."

A sharp nod, swallowing. "Good. Just in case - those things - dementors -" Dudley's face is pale, almost going green as he closes the door after Harry and shows him "Battery-powered lights. Rigged 'em like that so they're always on, in case." 

Harry hasn't the heart to tell him that dementors can, since also suck away natural light, can definitely knock out lamps with batteries, but. If they're talking about this it means they're still on good terms so "Right. Nice," he nods as his cousin walks into the kitchen. This place really is cosy, and clean. 

Dudley nods and opens his mouth, closes it. He pulls out a glass and then another. Puts both on the counter, and as if it's an afterthought he gestures to the glasses and to Harry. "You want -"

"Something to drink?" Harry saves him, seeing the other acting as if he's walking round on eggshells. "Yeah, whatever you're having, Big D."

Dudley's lips twitch at the nickname, but he seems to relax a bit. "Got spot of supper here too," he says, nudging at a pan with half-congealed something inside. "Looks shite, but it's really not too bad."

Before Harry can think, "Well if it's shite or burnt I'm used to that." He doesn't mean it any way but factual, but Dudley gets this look on his face as he hands Harry a glass, embarrassed, forlorn. Screwed-up expression, like he's still trying to reconcile what all had been done.

"Yeah," his eyes flicker away from Harry's. He had already said he was sorry, but the sentiment is still in his face and the tenor of his words as he adds "Not gonna do that though. I can cook something -" something else, he means, and Harry's heart lifts, swelling almost painfully as Dudley moves and speaks so carefully. What happened to him last year, when he and his parents were taken off to be safe during Voldemort's final rampage? Could that really have done so much? Sure, Harry had saved his arse from the dementors, that started it; but was it enough, alongside whatever had subsequently happened, to cause this much of a change? Harry recalls those incredible words _"I don't think you're a waste of space. You saved my life."_ and the handshake that followed. 

The start of whatever this is, as Dudley just now fries up some sausages "I'll try not to burn 'em," he says, "have to make some for me meal tomorrow too, got to head out early. Extra room I told you 'bout is down the hall, past the loo. I've got class in the morning but you c'n stay round here awhile, dunno what you're gonna do for school.... Mine's kicking me arse," he grumbles, and Harry laughs.

"You were always good at kicking back, or rather first, if I remember correctly," he says as Dudley's head shoots up, eyes wide at the mirth, and then miracle of miracles, Dudley shoots him an answering grin. 

"Yeah, guess you're right."

Somehow things ease, a bit. The silence is almost companionable now as Harry sits and watches his cousin cook. He tries not to pinch himself, but. At least he knows Dudley won't ask anything about the wizarding war, and that is enough occasion for him to stick around here until he can figure what to do next. 

What he doesn't expect is a letter from Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing my best to write Dudley having recognised a good bit of what his parents did to Harry as being abusive, thus being one of multiple reasons he struck out on his own. Also I imagine people started ragging on him for his state of being that only child who gets/has everything and doesn't understand life, so Dudley, being this fighting sort, is going to prove those wankers wrong. (And maybe, just maybe he realises his own state in his parents' house wasn't the best either).  
> In abusive households, nobody wins. 
> 
> Anyhow. Love to know what you think about this little piece about him 
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	3. Fire Til He is Done In

Along with the essence of this year's school letter indicating the necessity for an eighth year at Hogwarts and the necessity of taking W.O.M.B.A.T.S. tests in order to officially graduate, at the bottom of the roll of parchment is a postscript written specifically to Harry, which he recognises by the fact that McGonagall writes to him in her natural stern tone:

_'As a portion of the promise that I made to you several years ago, Potter, I have altered the necessities to become a Hogwarts professor. Yes, you read that right. I know of your ... underground work teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in your fifth year, and have spoken with the Ministry about the possibility of teaching of students how to combat dark magic substituting for your formal trials to become an Auror. You will have several visitations by the Auror Office during the course of the school year, and will report your students' work (as well as their test scores) directly to me._

 _I shall be glad to assist you with any lesson planning that you might require, and this work will also count as portions of your final scores for Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology, Potions, and Charms. I have spoken to all of your other professors about this, and as long as the plans for your own lessons include aspects of each class, you will receive full marks in that class at the conclusion of the year. Furthermore, I've made an addition of Muggle Studies to your caseload, due to your knowledge of that world. Along with the fact that teaching, in essence, is a muggle calling as well as a magical one._

_I will expect you to speak to me of this on your departure from the Hogwarts Express, preferably sooner if you are able. I am aware, however, that you no longer own an owl._

_Best wishes, Minerva McGonagall, Interim Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'._

Harry has absolutely no idea what to think of the letter and simply stares at it, hands fisted in his unruly hair as he sits at his cousin's kitchen table. After several interminable moments, he lifts his eyes blankly to the stately owl come from Hogwarts. 

"... She's lost it," he murmurs to the bird. "Honestly, I'm a bit worried that Professor McGonagall has gone absolutely mental."

He doesn't even know whether or not he should mention this to Hermione and Ron. They both have so much they're probably dealing with at this point, anyway; Hermione with her parents in Australia, and Ron, with his family... Harry hasn't even talked to Ginny, really. Not since they said goodbye before the holidays. He guesses he'll be seeing her, seeing them all as he gets on the train. 

Harry gets a lump in his throat over who isn't going to be there, and works incredibly hard not to imagine anything else, what people might say; he's thought so often about George, about Tonks and Lupin's little boy Teddy (his godson, wow) living with his grandma who's got enough on her plate with grieving over her husband and daughter and son-in-law.... Harry heaves out a breath that's almost choking him and realises he has crumpled up his school letter unintentionally. Smooths it out, blinking hard, offering an apology to the owl who appears a bit ruffled whilst making stately way across the table.

But as one way or another he's going back to Hogwarts, Harry pulls his mind into the remembrance that he will need to stop by Diagon Alley first. He wonders how Dudley will handle an entire street full of witches and wizards. Furthermore, if he can even ask, much less expect, his cousin to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Harry's been asked to be a teacher because  
> 1\. honestly I think that's a bit more his calling than being an auror, at least directly after finishing school (sorry Harry not trying to step on your dreams but 10/10 he was the second-best dada teacher most of those kids ever had, the best one for anyone who didn't have Lupin, and that was just when he was an angsty fifteen year old. What more could he do without freaking out about Voldemort but still trying to keep people safe? So much, I think)  
> 2\. I'm positive McGonagall both knows about the Room of Requirement AND Dumbledore's Army because not only is she smart and with it in any context, but she was around the Marauders for seven years, c'mon.  
> And 3. really it's probably enough of a headache working up an eighth year of schooling for a bunch of kids, I'm ten thousand percent positive Minerva doesn't want the extra headache of hiring another teacher, going through interviews and background checks, etc etc when she can so easily vouch for this one.
> 
> What do you think? Comments appreciated <3


	4. But They Catch You at the Border

"Look, you haven't got to go indoors anyplace you don't want to," Harry twists his fingers together, eyes flickering to his cousin's open-mouthed countenance and then back to studying the grain of the table as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. _This is ridiculous, it's too bloody much. Absolutely mad,_ he says to himself. 

But he can't carry all of the supplies that he will need to purchase from Diagon Alley. Not on his own, anyway.

Harry had sent back a letter with the owl, telling Professor McGonagall that yes, he'd be willing to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher if she really needs him. 

"You can even just - drop me, and I'll...get in touch after I've done my shopping," Harry winces at the wording, wishes he didn't have to do any of this, didn't have to ask, didn't feel so bloody _desperate--_

But here Dudley is screwing up his face a bit and thinking. "How'll you get in touch with me to come back, then?" He rolls his large shoulders under the jacket he's still wearing, having come back from class to have this thrown at him. He looks at Harry, raising his eyebrows. "You haven't a phone, have you?" As Harry shakes his head, Dudley huffs a bit. "Thought not. And 'sides, I don't think those specky arms of yours can carry much of anything. I'll have to help you."

Harry stands there, not believing his ears. Dudley, his cousin who yelled about not getting twenty-seven birthday gifts and who'd sat on an air rifle once and who'd eaten an entire bag of magical sweets and gotten his tongue a metre long because of it - this same person is going to the magical shopping centre of London to help Harry buy his last year's worth of magic school supplies and textbooks. It's utterly absurd. He blinks. All he can manage past the lump in his throat is "...Thanks, Big D."

Dudley grunts. "Wouldn't expect y' to be able to do a thing by yourself anyhow," he taunts, but there is nothing of malice in it. It's almost friendly, a bit of banter. Harry still cannot fathom how any of this had occurred, but he tries not to question it.

Makes a mental note, however, to steer Dudley as far away as possible from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

***

It's cloudy, of course, sky low and grey when Harry goes along the London High Street and makes it to the alleyway beside the Leaky Cauldron ("It's a boarding pub. Maybe could go there after for a pint," he offered, to see his cousin's ears perk up) and takes out his wand to tap the central brick. Dudley snorts at him.

"Nothin' s happened, oi, you're gonna look like a real tosser just standing with a stick - oh hold ON, now -" he gasps as the bricks start to wiggle then and form an entryway. Dudley appears pop-eyed, like he might fall down, and Harry smirks at him.

"You were saying?" At how pale his cousin is, he takes hold of him. "C'mon Dudley, for old times sake I'll get you some ice cream."

"... There's magical ice cream?"

Harry laughs.

It's different, the Alley. Subtle, except in Gringotts - there is an entire process to check whether or not Harry is who he says he is, and little carts don't take people down to the vaults; instead the exact amount of coin or other valuables from a vault are scooped up by an enchanted flying valise and brought back. Harry says something about having lock boxes with keys, like the muggles use, and is stopped for a long moment by one of the higher managers who overhears his comment and wishes to learn more. Harry does his best to explain, and feels a sense of accomplishment as he exits with most of his coin and the assurance that at least he doesn't hear the roaring of a captured dragon in the bowels of the bank anymore.

***

True to his decision, Harry stays far off from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, steering himself and his cousin down the opposite side of the street. Yet he cannot help looking up at the windows of the joke shop, the smiling face of the man on the building itself - that specific smile, Harry thinks yes, that's Fred - tilting a hat and beaming as within everyone is able to have a laugh. 

He thinks he spots George through the window once, putting up some jars out of boxes, and he's just come from Flourish and Blotts with books (including some extras on magical theory, Magical Maladies and Mysteries, and the Defense Primer, which Harry is sure Hermione will fawn over, or otherwise be utterly gobsmacked to see him doing extra reading. He wonders what she'll think about McGonagall asking him to teach. She had been the one to urge him to lead Dumbledore's Army back in Fifth Year, after all). 

He gets a new trunk to pack everything in, and freezes outside Eylops Owl Emporium, feeling as though his heart has stopped beating. _Hedwig._ Harry never really got to mourn her, never had a funeral or said any words - what sort of funeral could there be, really, for an owl? But he knows he doesn't want to get another. Not now. Not yet. Is about to walk by, sucking in a shallow breath, when Dudley speaks up for almost the first time.

"Hang on, that's how you lot communicate," he blurts. "With birds, innit?" 

"I - yes, we do," Harry is confused by the interest and sputters. "Erm, are you asking bec -? Dudley?" 

His cousin has been feeling in his pockets and then with an expression Harry cannot decipher, stomps into the place and begins looking at the owls. Nonplussed, Harry follows him. 

After a bit of searching, "This one," it's a darkly specked bird with sharp eyes and tufts on its head. Dudley pulls out a credit card, and then with his face reddening, shuffling his enormous feet, he adds "Well, just in case something bad happens, like. Dunno about your - dark lord, or what, but. Just in case of - whatever I should have one, maybe. Is that allowed?"

And Harry softens with thankful surprise, saying "Go on then, and you'll need some owl pellets." He presses galleons into his cousin's hand "They don't take credit cards here, D."

"Heh. Right."

*** 

They do actually go for a pint, then; Dudley holding up his newly-purchased owl in awe and pride. "This thing's wicked cool anyhow, if I've just got him round for kicks, even - lookit those feathers!" He whistles, and his round face for once seems appreciative of the idea of magic. Everything else has made him a bit nervous, including the sight of people in robes. 

Dudley appreciates firewhiskey too, when they get their pints and sit in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry informs him the fish and chips are good, and he is about to order some when Harry is sighted and accosted by some people who know exactly who he is, and how he defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort once and for all last year, he's wonderful, a hero. They gather and gasp and gush before shaking hands, and Harry wants to sink into the floor. So heavily the word 'hero' weighs upon him. Dudley is drinking his whiskey and cutting his eyes from the glass he holds up to study Harry.

"Erm, thank you," Harry says, trying desperately to be polite, to deal with the thanks and the squeals and the photos. "But I'm not a hero, really. The people who are, who fought with me and aren't here now, they're the real heroes."

The people who came to see him, a family with kids babbling to their parents about who Harry Potter is, all shift in discomfort and beat a hasty retreat. 

Dudley doesn't say anything for a bit. More than a bit. Harry softly asks for a single order of fish and chips, and they sit in silence. Eventually, his cousin asks "So, you like that? Being a hero and all?"

"I hate it," Harry says flatly. He'd meant to say _it's alright, I'm glad Voldemort is dead, I did my best and had something worth fighting for, so that's what helped me succeed._ Probably should have said something like that, and would have, to anyone from the wizarding world. But this is Dudley, who knows nothing about it. Who talks shite to him anyway, and won't hold anything magical as automatically being somehow amazing, not even if the 'good magic' won out against the 'bad'. So Harry can tell him the truth. The whole truth.

As is instantaneously proved by the fact that the only thing Dudley says is "Well you'll always be my tetchy little cousin who I used to pound into a pulp and who cried in his sleep, if that helps."

Harry snorts. "It was just a stroke of luck I saved your life then."

"Oh, yeah." There is a sidelong glance as the sizzling fried fish and piping hot chips are brought to them. Harry shoves the plate over to his cousin, and Dudley makes a sound of pleasure as he grabs the first bit of fish, gesturing for Harry to take some too if he wants. "You did save it though, yeah? Err, this place? Your world?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Well not specifically this place, Diddikins. I didn't hole up in here, but." Harry bites the inside of his cheek and then swallows the last of his drink. "I...well I certainly tried."

And that's it. That's all he says. Dudley nods thoughtfully, jaws working as he chews through the fish and fries before waving his hand, gesturing at the remnants to see if Harry wants any. He doesn't, shakes his head, and Dudley shrugs and lifts his glass just slightly. Maybe for the hero thing, far more likely for the fish, and Harry feels a tiny spark of gratitude as he feeds the owl a fry and sits with his cousin in nearly companionable silence. Strangest interaction, really; even in quite a strange stretch of days as these previous ones have been. 

Such strange days continue when Dudley is willing to drive Harry and all his new school things to Ottery St Catchpole and thus to the Burrow on the thirty-first of July. He stops the car where Harry says (because he is positive no matter how much Dudley likes his owl, he isn't ready to meet the rest of the Weasleys, particularly since the remaining family members are unaware of all of Dudley's incredible personality changes and thus will likely not forgive what had been done to Harry over the years). 

He awkwardly waves goodbye, and offers to write, though Harry does not expect him to actually do it, and they part ways with another handshake and a "Happy eighteenth," which Harry is floored to realise - today is, in fact, his eighteenth birthday. In the depths of his head, particularly during the course of last year, he hadn't thought he'd make it.

Strange times indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is having a tough time.
> 
> I hope Dudley acting the way he is does not come across as too terribly jarring. Remembering that he left tea at Harry's door and such, and the fact he and his parents had to stay somewhere likely magical and safe to be protected from Voldemort, I think even if he's still unsure about all this magic stuff he's been knocked down enough pegs and has realised Harry is not, in fact, the worst as to be able to be around his cousin. And even to do things for him, in part from guilt over how he and his parents treated Harry; but also because I'm optimistic and would like to think that Dudley has recognised his cousin is actually a decent guy. And he might be one too. Anyway. Hope this isn't too out of character!
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	5. And the Mourners are All Singing...

Harry stands outside the Burrow, heart thudding with the sound of the car door's slam before his cousin backs up and drives away, and the door of that lovely, haphazard house, the first place he felt held a real home, a family; where everyone genuinely seemed to enjoy his presence - bangs open and half-toppling out is the lanky form of his best friend, wand up.

"Bloody _hell!_ " Ron's voice echoes across the garden as his family comes out as well, wands at the ready, up and pointing at him - of course, they'd still be on edge, it makes sense - "Is that you, Harry?"

"... It's me," Harry's voice almost croaks into nothingness as he stands there facing them all. Ron, with Hermione beside him, both their faces brightening a bit; Ginny, her jaw clenched, eyes full of that blazing look; Percy, shifting and gaunt, not quite looking directly at anyone or anything, his dark ginger hair mussed; Arthur and Molly with their arms around each other, looking so much older than last year, and weary. And then there's a swarthy person with scars, Charlie, who nods to Harry with a quietly raised hand. 

There's Bill, long hair in a ponytail, looking well, even with his scar from Greyback. He does look dashing, as Fleur had said. And she, herself, always lovely but in a way nearly too bright, is glowing now in a sort of softer fashion, comforting, her hands folded over her abdomen as she leans into her husband's arms. And last, though not least, Harry's eyes only hardly bearing to look at him without his twin, is George. He wears his bright suit, like he'd just come from work, but his face is so pale and set and there is no trace of that wide smile he used to have. Harry's heart thumps and his eyes fill as his lips mouth words, and suddenly he's moving forward, lunging over, as is George. 

There is naught but a thud of bodies and of arms thrown around backs, clutching at clothing, a whispered, nearly whimpered "I'm so sorry, George" as Harry buries his face into George's shoulder, because this is why he hadn't sent word, why he hadn't come round; Harry cannot stop thinking Fred's death is on him, for coming back, for bringing the battle to Hogwarts, for inciting Ron to have his family help... They all had lost a brother, a best friend, a son. 

And George has lost someone even dearer to him than all of that, yet still he says "It isn't your fault, Harry. D'you hear me?" As he strokes Harry's hair and lets the younger man cry into his shoulder. Mrs Weasley tells Harry that he looks pale when he at last relinquishes George and she lets out a motherly sound whilst extending her hands to cup his cheeks. Hermione kisses his cheek, Ron thumps him on the back, Mr Weasley shakes his hand, and they all move in a mob for the railway. 

Harry wants to speak to Ginny but can find nothing to say, nothing else but that he's sorry for not contacting her. Anyone, but especially her. His eyes follow her bright hair as she turns and heads with all the rest, the one on the outermost reaches is Percy. Harry feels a shock of cold as he looks at him - keeping his distance, seemingly unsure, flinches whenever someone looks at him. There is so much pain in Percy's face, so much guilt and regret there, that Harry feels like he has suffered a lashing spell. He wants to say something of that, but the little core of anger over everything that Percy did in renouncing his family and working for the corrupted Ministry rather than believing Voldemort had returned stays his voice and instead causes Harry to transfer his glare to the ground.

He comes back to hear Hermione saying " - and today's your birthday, Harry, we haven't forgotten it!"

Harry looks up at her. He didn't expect a thing, he has been awful, not reaching out all summer. Yet they're being so kind to him. "You haven't?"

"'Course not mate, not every day a guy turns eighteen," George's face brightens for the first time, and he walks by with a little cake that he passes to Harry. 

"Be careful blowing that out, Harry," advises Ron, as there's a little candle sparking on top. "It's one of the - erm, George's concoctions, y'know." He had almost said 'twins' Harry hears it, sees Ron blanch and almost drop the little cake. So he smiles extra wide and takes a huge breath to blow the candle out.

With an incredibly loud rude sound followed by a _pop!_ purple frosting explodes all over Harry's face and Hermione screams. His mouth was just a bit open, though, and a morsel of the cake flew (as though perfectly placed and planned that way) to land in Harry's mouth. He blinks sprinkles out of his eyes and hair, nodding. "Thanks, George," as Molly looks like she's ready to start screeching only to see Harry mop up icing from his glasses as her son beams. Beams in a way she had never thought to witness again.

"Oh, Arthur...," she whispers, hand curling around her husband's arm. "Look at him."

Arthur smiles, pressing his lips together tight as he can as tears are threatening. "I see, love." 

George has given Harry a handkerchief to mop up the sprinkles and frosting and remnants of the cake. He says something about him needing an actual present now as Ron swipes icing off his friend's shirt collar. Harry asks "what d'you mean actual present? That was brilliant" and Hermione is scandalised as Ron actually eats the icing. 

" _Ronald!_ " 

"What? It's good!"

The family bunches together, all heading to send the youngest few off on the Hogwarts Express for the final time as students, Fleur moving up into the group and lacing her arm through one of Harry's as she keeps a tight hold on Bill. All of them listening to Charlie regale with some story - about dragons, most likely - as they make it close enough to risk Apparating into King's Cross Station. 

One person goes first - Ron - to ensure that they won't be ogled at by muggles and thus exhort Hermione to utilise her prowess at a Memory Charm. There has been enough grief and sadness brought to the surface today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know what to say about this chapter, really. I love the Weasley family, and going through loss like theirs... it's hell
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	6. ...But the Hangman isn't Hanging

Bustle of the platform and the arrival of the train blowing its whistle and sending gales of smoke through the tunnel whilst it pulls up is achingly familiar to them all. There are hugs and kisses and tears, Mrs Weasley whispering "Write to us, if you'd like," to Harry as she gives him a tight hug. Soon enough their other friends arrive, all those who came for an extra year at Hogwarts - either by their guardians' wishes or their own. Seamus, Dean, and Neville already have a compartment and pull Ginny and then Luna in as well, as she'd been strolling along in her dreamy way. 

Ginny goes from the initial compartment to the next one over with Ron and Hermione a bit after the train pulls away and all wave to those on the platform as it disappears behind them. Harry freezes over the possible implications, the coupling going on; here Ginny would be with not only someone who'd gotten a member of her family killed (George can say what he'd like, and Harry is grateful for it, but that doesn't negate the guilt) but also the cowardly tosser who had not gotten in touch with her all summer. Her eyes are burning at him with so many questions, and Harry makes a strangled noise, says he needs to stretch his legs and that he'll see them all later. 

He rushes headlong down the corridor of the train, passing multiple compartments half as full as they were used - Ernie and Hannah are sitting in a compartment with Susan and Cho, who shoots Harry a sad shifting smile as he passes their compartment door and briefly makes eye contact with her. He spies a few Slytherins, among them Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini always seeming utterly bored... And then in a compartment alone, his platinum blond head appearing as dishevelled as Harry has ever seen it, is Draco Malfoy.

Unintentionally, Harry pauses outside his door and the other's head shoots up. 

The attempt at a sneer is so slight it disappears instantly, and Malfoy seems almost tired as he pushes open the door partway. "Haven't got that fancy cloak of yours on this time, Potter. Losing your touch, eh? Though you didn't have much of one to begin with," Malfoy stretches and puts his hands behind his head, though it seems more for appearance's sake than real vitriol.

"Doesn't seem like you're doing anything worth noticing, Malfoy. Haven't got any mates to regale with ridiculous stories this trip?" Harry must admit he's curious as to why Malfoy is sitting alone. Surely he'd have dragged at least ONE person to sit with him. "Where are your mates, anyhow?"

Malfoy jerks one shoulder as if irritable. "How should I know? Goyle let it slip that I crossed back over after I got Crabbe killed -" he stops speaking, but Harry feels his chest clench tight.

"Crabbe got himself killed," Harry retorts, lips pressing together without brooking any arguments, and he cannot be completely sure, but something flashes for a moment in Malfoy's icy gaze that makes Harry think he might be almost grateful.

"Right. What kind of git summons fiendfyre like that anyway, in an enclosed space? I _told_ him--" there is a pause where he winces and his eyes drop from Harry's. "Well, you know what happened, Potter."

"Yeah."

It's awkward, then, a silence stretches wherein both of them are furiously studying their shoes; or rather Draco is glowering at the wall, it seems, before he spits out "Right, you here to hex me then? Tell me I can't come back to school? Oh no, of course not precious Potter, he's so _noble--_ "

"Shut up, Malfoy, no," Harry interjects, slamming himself through the door of the compartment and then pushing it shut again with force. "Truthfully? I wanted to be around someone who'll take the mick. I've gotten fed up with everybody thanking me and - and being so nice, honestly." He sets his suitcase down and sits across from the Slytherin, beckoning. "So c'mon. Do your worst."

The blond fellow's eyebrows practically disappear into his hair. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters. "I've done this for YEARS and your miniscule brain never comprehended that it was art. Well this is my lucky day," he deadpans, and rattles off a blistering stream of insults that genuinely seem to bring a sparkle to his eyes and cause a couple of wry smiles to flash across Harry's face.

He keeps up the insults for a good while, and it's full dark outside the window by the time his imagination runs out and his lips twitch as he says "Got anything you'd like to say to me, Potter?" 

Harry's usual "Shut up, Malfoy," makes the other's lips twitch in satisfaction as they stare at each other for a few moments. Then with blinks and a nod they sit back in what is a strangely almost companionable silence, though each one glares distrustfully at the other for a few seconds before the other makes a face back. 

When the train slows and stops at last, Harry is first out of the compartment, and Malfoy calls out "Have fun cocking up your last year, Potter!"

And Harry could have shouted back "You too," but something stops him; could be the flickering in Malfoy's eyes, a jumping muscle in his pale jaw, or perhaps it's the fact that he had been sitting alone for the entire train ride until Harry discovered him. 

He cannot make a reply anyway, because he turns then and runs slap-bang into Ron. 

"Blimey, Harry, wondered where you'd got to! We were looking the whole ride, or almost," Harry's brows rise as his eyes track a dark spot just beside Ron's collar on his neck. He hitches up a bag and mutters "shut up, get your trunk," to Harry as they step off the train together, following the trail of students (Hermione, Neville, and Luna have gone ahead, as has Ginny, Ron says. Not sure where Dean and Seamus got to.) 

Harry hefts his own trunk up and apologises for ditching them; he intends to say that he needed to get away from people looking at him like he's some sort of magnificent hero, people expect things, and he... "I just went for a walk down the train," he blurts out. "Lost track of time." Winces at the ridiculousness of that, what, did he just keep walking for hours instead of coming back to the compartment? Hermione would have several follow up questions, along with a demand of whether or not he was all right. Ginny would just stare at him and know what he wasn't telling her, but this is Ron. Ron doesn't question him, because Ron knows Harry tells him what he needs to know.

"Yeah, alright. Come on then, the others'll be by the carriages already."

Harry nods and follows his best mate, simultaneously disappointed and relieved by Ron's forthright trusting nature and the fact that he hadn't pressed the issue any further.

***

Groups of students part and shift and coalesce, and there are still whispers as people catch sight of Harry. So many whispers. But the older students disperse as the familiar strident stern voice of Professor McGonagall dictates where they must all go. "All right, Miss Abbott, you and Miss Bones go on to the second carriage. Miss Chang, Mr Macmillan, oh hello Mr Longbottom. Would you care to go with them as well?"

"Er, hullo Professor. Yes, if that's alright."

"That is why I asked you, yes it's quite all right, go on." She waves him to the carriage with a smile. "Well if it isn't Mr Weasley and Mr Potter." Minerva looks over her glasses at the pair of them.

"Hi Professor," Harry waves.

"'Lo Prof - say, shouldn't we be calling you Headmistress now?"

"I don't know, Mr Weasley, did you refer to 'Headmaster Dumbledore' as such?" She presses her lips together and raises one eyebrow.

"I - no?"

"I don't see why I should be addressed any differently, then. Do go on, there's a carriage with Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, and Miss Lovegood in. We shall have to find another to fill -" her sharp eyes search the remaining students as she adds "I got your returned owl, Potter, thank you. Are you ready and willing to take up your new duties for this year?"

Harry swallows and nods at her. "I'm sure with your help I'll do all right, Professor, so yes."

McGonagall's features seem not so stern as usual. In fact, she softens, her body almost appearing to relax as she takes a breath and responds "Splendid. I have no doubt that you will. And just so that you are aware, Potter," she puts out her hand to him, resting it on his arm to his immense surprise. "In light and in lieu of the horrific tragedies on campus last therm, it has come searing to my attention that we must work very differently in order to provide assistance and equality amongst all students in the classroom and beyond. We must foster a real sense of community and inter-House unity. And so I shall be taking students in higher years and rooming them with those their age from other Houses." She looks at a roll of parchment on which Harry can just make out a neat row of little lists in infinitesimal, precise handwriting: "For example, you will room with Mr Thomas, Mr Longbottom, Mr Finch-Fletchley, Mr Malfoy, and Mr Zabini. I will announce this with listings outside each Common Room and make an announcement about it at supper tonight so that everyone will know. Ah, here's our sixth for the carriage, Mr Malfoy, will you go with Potter, please?" 

Harry turns sharply to catch sight of Malfoy's white-blond head in McGonagall's wand light, and the sneer that slips from his lips at the sight of the professor. He nods sharply, once, not daring to disobey, and takes his trunk with him to climb into the carriage. 

Yet Harry himself lingers back a moment, and cannot help but ask "Are you serious about all of this, Professor?"

McGonagall looks at him with resolve in her expression, eyes full of surety that the nature of Hogwarts mist be forged anew, and these are the school's initial steps towards a better, brighter future.

Her tone of voice is fierce, determined and he sees in that moment everything that makes her a true Gryffindor as she replies back "Incredibly serious, Mr Potter."

Harry does not even bother attempting to argue with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's happened this chapter:  
> \- Harry is having a hard time, still  
> \- Mrs Weasley wants to get letters, probably so she knows the rest of her kids are safe, and I just made myself sad :'(  
> \- Ginny Knows All  
> \- Ron and Hermione were definitely getting cosy in their train compartment ;)  
> \- Harry likes it when Malfoy talks crap to him (whoah it's not like THAT ...okay it could be, a little, who knows? Not Harry)  
> \- Professor McGonagall is amazing  
> \- New room assignments?? Oooh people might be miffed
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	7. So They Put You On the Street

"She's mental."

Ron grabs onto Harry, pop-eyed and open-mouthed, as soon as they step foot into the castle. "We've got to talk, mate," he says. Harry winces but nods. He knows they do.

The carriage ride had been one of the most severely uncomfortable experiences of Harry's life, which is saying something. Hermione had spent the duration of it pressed against Ron - Hermione, the girl of anyone he knows, is the most averse to PDA - alternatively glancing at Malfoy and at her feet, Crookshanks curled around her shoulders like a sort of living ruff; Ron kept his arm tight around her and offered his chest and neck for her to cuddle against, even with the cat. Ginny simply glowered the entire time, hand clenched around her wand as though silently begging someone to make a move or speak a word that would invite her to perform one of her infamous hexes upon them. Harry isn't even certain whether her target would be Malfoy or him.

Ron's jaw is clenched, Harry's clenching his hands around his knees, and Luna, bless her, had started chatting to Draco about the brightness of his hair attracting Nargles. "...or even a curious Niffler, honestly - they adore shiny objects, you know."

Malfoy clears his throat uncomfortably, blue-grey eyes shifting, flickering. He obviously has not a clue what to make of her, and his mouth turns and begins scrunching up, at the outset of its typical sneer, when Luna disarms him completely with "Your hair colour is rather lovely. It looks rather thick and nice. Nifflers liking it is a compliment." She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm for a moment.

"I - oh." Malfoy's pale features flush a trifle red. Difficult to distinguish in the stark moonlight along the path as their threstral takes them towards the castle, but visible nonetheless. Harry finds himself wondering if Malfoy has ever received a compliment like that before; surely not, Luna is the most honest and unguarded of witches. He notices that Malfoy tenses at the Ravenclaw girl's contact, but he does not flinch away as Harry expected him to do, Luna being surely odd and unclean somehow; not proper or normal - but not only does the tension seem to ease from Malfoy's shoulders, but Harry takes note that the other man's robes are not brand-new this year. The edges of the sleeves seem a bit worn, actually, and Malfoy's legs jiggle up and down as he clutches his trunk, its leather scuffed just like his shoes, and is that a tear in the fabric of his slacks? Malfoy glares and jerks his trunk in front of his legs as he sees Harry looking, but the bulging whiteness of his knuckles around the handle of his trunk suggests a feeling akin to Harry's own discomfiture.

Even as Harry recalls him running from the Room of Requirement without a single backward look, sees Katie Bell's face twisting and stricken in agony as she rises into the air, thrashing, frozen, cursed...then he remembers a pale, terrified face, blood -no- and then long whisps of hair tickling his skin, brushing across his immobile face, feels the clenching of a hand in the cloth of his shirt, nails scratching his chest briefly.

_'Is Draco alive? Is he at the castle?'_

_'Yes,' he breathed back._

_The hand on his chest clenched and then withdrew, its owner turning and standing and then..._

_'He is dead!' Narcissa Malfoy announced._

Yet the responses of the others - Hagrid's moan, his tears, Professor McGonagall's anguished cry, piercing and more horrific for it being so unexpected... And perhaps that is another reason she has asked Harry to teach, because as long as he is close she can keep an eye on him; Ron, Hermione, and Ginny - oh, Gin...if he hadn't been able to help them....

"Harry? Harry, we're here, are you alright?" Hermione's voice, soft and almost tremulous, cuts into his head along with the warmth of her hand curling around his own, her forehead wrinkled just a bit as she leans over to look closely at him, eyes fastened on his.

"We've reached the castle," Luna's ever dreamy tone floats over them as Ron also asks if Harry is okay. Ginny still says nothing, but her eyes sear with silent questions in the background.

Harry swallows. "Yes, sorry. I'm alright, just - got lost in my head for a minute."

He looks over at Malfoy for a moment as the Slytherin lets out a sound like a scoff, but the expression on his face tells Harry that even as their thoughts are nowhere close to the same, Malfoy understands the phenomenon of being stuck inside one's head.

Ron's features harden as he catches the sound before Malfoy turns haughtily away, and as everyone gathers their things to take to the castle, Ron's intensity grows and he grabs ahold of Harry's shoulder and says they've got to talk. Harry feels his stomach drop and roll with guilt. "I know, Ron, and I'm sorry -"

"Hang on, that all can wait. I just want to know what McGonagall was on about, mentioning Malfoy and that. Wossit she's asked you to do?"

Oh, that. "She asked me to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year, as part of my training as an Auror. And...said it can count as part of my final marks for classes, like."

Harry isn't sure what he expects for a response, maybe for Ron to laugh or get excited about Harry giving him good marks, but Ron whistles and blurts

"She's absolutely mental, she is!" 

Harry shrugs. "She heard about the DA, I suppose, or something. I'm guessing that's why she asked me. Dunno, though." 

"What'd you say?" 

Harry stares at Ron. "I said yes, I would, of course. I figure... It'll probably help her out this year, and I know it'll keep me busy," _So I won't have time to think about the past, about everything and everyone who's gone, because of me._ Honestly a lot of that is why he had said yes. Of course, assisting Professor McGonagall and the possibility of use for a job in the future had been major incentives as well, but Harry will do anything to keep himself from spiralling into dark thoughts. He gets enough of that in dreams, and those he cannot control. "Just seemed like a good option is all," Harry shrugs almost helplessly. 

"Well I think you're as mental as McGonagall," Ron says, and then slaps Harry on the shoulder with a grin. "But what do I know? I've never even thought of teaching! 'Mione will be excited, that's for sure." His voice softens when he speaks of Hermione, which makes Harry smile. They're so in love with each other. 

"She's probably going to be loads better at grading papers than me, I may have to ask her to be my teaching assistant." 

"That's tr-- oh come on, you're grading us, Harry?" Ron cries as they set down their trunks in the entrance hall. 

Harry blinks. "'Course, that's what professors have to do," he says. With lips curving into a little smile, "Which means you're going to have to actually study, Ron."

"Oh, bloody hell!"

***

Harry is exhausted, mentally and physically, as soon as he crosses the Great Hall to whispers and awe and a couple of people coming up to speak to him or throw their arms around him in an embrace. The typical response to the latter action is to be embarrassed, but Harry does his best to smile and nod and thank everyone for their support, saying "great, fine" and suchlike phrases even as he feels as though he is crumbling.

He drops at last to a seat at the Gryffindor table, raking fingers through his hair and giving it a pull as he looks up into Ginny's brown eyes where she's sitting directly across from him, oh - and after the newest students are Sorted, Professor McGonagall rises to make her announcement, saying how glad she is to have them all here, that this is a new year and a new day in the wizarding community, "...and as such Hogwarts must form anew to reflect this change. There will be a large portion of vocational classes beginning this term, as well as assistance for any students suffering from effects of last year and terms previous. Whether you have lost someone, know what happened, or were fighting yourself, know that we are here to listen and to help - as Heads of your houses -" she gestures to each professor who identifies as such, leveling an extra-stern glance at Horace Slughorn, who looks as if he would like to be somewhere, anywhere else - "Madam Pomfrey," she indicates the school's matron, who never goes anywhere without her white kerchief on, "And any other figure as well."

Harry's heart lifts to see Hagrid with his trashcan sized hand raised in a jovial wave, face scrunched in a smile underneath his beard, eyes sparkling. He's tamed the beard a bit this year, and his hair, too; it appears to be tied into a plaited ponytail with a bit of leather cord or a ribbon of some sort.

When she brings up the inter-House room assignments, there is an uproar, though nothing quite to the point of the Weasley twins roaring out "THAT'S RUBBISH!" His fourth year, and all the uproar does to McGonagall is cause her to purse her lips and glare daggers and say they are are all doing this TOGETHER, as a community, and are here to learn as such; "And if any students are suffering from this, they are encouraged to ask for help. We must be in this together, to learn from each other, care for one another, and to grow as a school, as people, and as a community. Besides, we still give and take House points, and shall demerit both Houses of the students who cannot practise respect and civility, as well as assign them detentions, so if that interests all of you, please do keep talking!"

That ends the groaning and shouting for now, and the aftermath is heading up (and down) to common rooms and four-posters with trunks having been taken, likely by the house elves, to students' newly-assigned spaces. There are grumbles and grousing and dramatics, as well as rather touching goodbyes.

"I'll see ya, Sham," Dean Thomas clasps ahold of Seamus Finnigan's hand. "Don't blow up too much without me." 

"Nuttin but my heart, ya know, boyo," Seamus speaks lightly, but his eyes blink rapidly in response to Dean's smile. The taller fellow wraps his arms around Seamus for a hug.

"Ah, you survived last year without me, didn't'cha, lad? And I'll be here this time, just sleepin' in a different room."

"Barely," Seamus grumbles into Dean's chest. "I barely survived, though honestly it'll be hilarious to watch Ron pine after Harry the whole bloody year," he rolls his eyes.

"...You sure that's who he'll be pining after?" Dean inquires with laughter in his voice.

Ron is currently giving Hermione a kiss, after which she laughs and shoves his chest lightly. "It's not like I'm going away anywhere, Ronald. You've never gotten to share a room with me anyway."

"Not from lack of wishing," Ron says quietly, and Hermione's cheeks go pink. "I, I mean," he coughs, his ears flaming red now "You're going to be sharing a room with Pansy Parkinson, for _months_! I'm worried about you, even though I know you can take her."

Hermione smiles at him, rolling her eyes and putting a hand to his cheek. Ron threads his fingers with hers and strokes her knuckles with one of his thumbs. 

He seems so much more settled now; they both do, really, and Harry is amazed at the change. He feels a tightening in his chest as he stands watching them together, his two best friends, the way they look at each other, that certain sort of ease even after the awkward comments. Harry pans his own eyes around the Common Room, seeing in a pair of bright eyes a familiar blazing look and the memory, the sensation of lips on his, comes to his mind clearly and unbidden. He opens his mouth and steps towards Ginny, only for her to turn and head for the girls' dormitory, hair flaming behind her like the burning in Harry's heart.

Hermione gives Ron another little kiss, and then Harry a hug, saying they'll be all right as they split up.

"And Ginny will as well, you know," a gentle voice says close to Harry's ear. "We all will be as all right as we possibly can be, in time." Luna. With her particular brand of wisdom. She takes hold of Harry's hand and presses it.

Harry squeezes her fingers in gratitude. "Thanks Luna," he says, and "See you all tomorrow." Ron waves, Hermione smiles, and they head to their respective rooms.

Harry prepares to check the schedule that McGonagall had given him, letting him know the times of his DADA classes, and then he hears a snide "Cheating on your girlfriend, are you, Potter? Or is that not a thing anymore? Did you have too much of a stink even for her?"

Harry lets go of Luna's hand and she smiles at him with a slight shake of the head. "He's trying to get something out of you in his loneliness, you know," she whispers, but Harry has already raised his hackles, already feels awful for the way he treated Ginny, already is so tired and furious.

"Shut up, Malfoy, sure you won't be able to find someone, even as a reformed Death Eater - you ARE that, aren't you? Only bloody reason you came to the train alone, why you were sitting alone,"

"Shut your mouth, Potter," Malfoy's eyes are glittering from his spot upon the stairs that he had come back down to hurl insults. Mostly everyone else has retreated to their newly-assigned sleeping spaces. No one has needed to lose any House points yet, but they might be the first....

Harry presses on. His ears are burning, his whole body tense with rage. "Why you haven't got any brand spanking new robes or luggage this year, and your own mother didn't even come to see you off -"

"At least I still HAVE a mother!" Malfoy howls, and Harry's wand is up and ready to hex him before he knows what he's doing. 

But "Harry, no," an arm is in his line of sight and a hand grasps his wand hand. Neville. Kind hazel brown eyes look into Harry's furious green ones. "Don't do that to him, it's not worth it." 

Malfoy is already turning and hauling arse up the stairs, hissing "Somebody has to stop you being a prat, Potter" and yet Neville is continuing to push Harry's hand down, the look in his eyes putting this into perspective.

Neville has been through a lot. The horror of what he has suffered, he and his entire family, at Death Eaters' hands, flashes through Harry's mind. Yet Neville had stood up to Voldemort, he had rallied everyone when they thought Harry was dead. He had killed the snake, the final horcrux, not to mention he'd protected the students at Hogwarts all last year. Neville Longbottom knows when it is better to fight and better to stand down. He is brave and he is caring, and Harry's fury drains out of him til he feels cold and tired. But also relieved. "Thanks, Neville," he says as he puts his wand away. "How're things going? You doing alright?"

"I'm okay, Harry," Neville nods, steps back, shifting his feet a little. "I'm really glad to be back here."

"Yeah?" Harry has always admired Neville's ability to handle where he is. Even in his fear of Professor Snape, he always went to Potions class. Even with what was done to his parents, he offered his answer of an Unforgivable Curse. Even when he didn't know what exactly was going on at the Department of Mysteries, he went along to help his friends. He's a good mate, Neville. A good person. 

"Yeah," Neville smiles at him. "It'll be nice to get a real education again, rather than dealing with the Carrows." He nearly shudders, it seems, lips pressing together over his teeth, and then he lifts his head and nods. "But they're gone, and things are good now. Or at least they are going to be."

"How...how d'you reckon that, Neville?" Harry's trying to keep his voice from breaking, he is. He feels pathetic. But Neville doesn't tease him or say he doesn't know. Neville swallows and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and looks into his face.

"Because we're all still here, Harry. You're not alone. None of us are alone." He pats Harry's shoulder softly and adds "People are here to help you, if you need. Just like you've helped us." And then he swallows and smiles, raising his hand awkwardly as if in a wave, or for a high-five as he steps back again and says that he's going to head to bed. 

Harry hasn't verbally responded, but he jerks his chin in a nod when Neville says goodnight, smiling back at him again before heading up to bed. Harry stands, voice breaking, and then abruptly sits down in the empty Common Room, still holding his teaching schedule. 

"Sleep well, Neville."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A little bit of dialogue and exposition from The Deathly Hallows is italicised here
> 
> Well, cue dramatics!
> 
> Neville Longbottom is the sweetest person ever and I absolutely adore him
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	8. Wheels Turning Round and Round

Harry does not recall falling asleep on his parchment, and he definitely does not recall going up to bed - thus, nearly falling out of it when he wakes the next morning is a surprise. The curtains were half-cinched closed around his four poster and he yelps as his head and torso is tangled into them.

Of course Malfoy laughs when he falls, and sends a particularly angry look in Harry's direction, which Harry responds to with an obscene gesture before he can think to stop himself, and then his rather fuzzy view of Malfoy is blocked by a long face appearing upside down from where he lies with the back of his head and bare shoulders resting on the floor, legs still stretched across his rumpled bed. Curly brown hair bobs as a mouth with slightly large teeth beams at him, a hand offering him help up from off the floor.

"Hey Harry, you got any snakes to set on me today?"

"Justin," Harry lifts his incredibly tousled head and has to take a moment to register the teasing. "...well I haven't found one as of yet, but if I do you'll be the first to know."

"Oh, sure." He's all smiles as he pulls Harry to help him sit, their hands slapping together before the Boy Who Lived scrubs his fingers over his face, still trying to wake up. "It's good to see you," Justin Finch-Fletchley says now. "I was a bit worried about who I'd be roomed with, t' be honest, but I'm glad it's with you lot, at least. Hi Neville!"

"'Lo, Justin," Neville has gotten off his own bed just now, tying shoes and smoothing down his tie. "Hey Harry, I erm. Got your glasses, they're on your side table."

Harry looks over to where his frames sit, folded properly and everything. He has a sneaking suspicion who got him up to bed from the Common Room after he must have dozed off down there, and he says with warm sincerity, "Thanks, Neville." 

Neville smiles. 

"Well, lads, I think we're going to -" 

"You're going to be late!" Malfoy chooses that moment to bawl back up the stairs at them. "So late, Potter! On your first day, too!" 

"Merlin's _bloody_ beard," Harry snarls as he leaps up, not even bothering to retort downstairs at Malfoy. He opens up his trunk and waves his wand over its contents to find some slacks and a collared shirt, which he shucks on, grabbing his tie and his jumper (as the trousers are black, it doesn't show that they wrinkle, but the shirt is another story) and pulls the soft knitted fabric over his head, buttoning the shirt and flinging his wand arm to catch papers and the books he'd bought for teaching. "Gonna be late to teach my first class, brilliant. Bye Neville, later Justin!" He slips his feet into shoes without bothering to grab socks and clatters down the stairs. His tie is looped around his neck utterly askew, but Harry hopes all that provides is an attitude that's devil-may-care instead of the actual I've-no-idea-what-I'm-up-to-here. 

At least his first Defense Against the Dark Arts class is made up of First Years, who often get rather lost, so really him being late is facilitating their ability to get themselves to his lesson on time. He only hopes a lack of breakfast is not going to be too much of an issue for him, much less a habit, though unintentional. He skids around the corner of a corridor in his new pair of somewhat shiny professor-esque shoes, or what he hopes is acceptable footwear for a professor, and nearly bites it as he slams into the door of the classroom at the end of the corridor that McGonagall had set up for him, she said. Fantastic. He gulps and tries to slow his breathing down before resting briefly against the door. 

Harry opens it to find about twenty-five tiny faces staring at him, in various states of pop-eyed or quivering. And he'd just slammed full force into the room, which could account for the screaming he'd heard before the door opened. Some of these kids even jump. Great. He tries to smile at them all, nodding and saying "Hello, how're you? I'm Har- I'm Professor Potter, your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." He makes it to the front of the room and drops his books and papers on the desk, which gets a few more students to jump. Two for two on scaring the life out of them. Harry attempts to look non-threatening, leaning himself against his desk and turning to face the class. He rolls up his sleeves for something to do, and because under the jumper his shirt is already drenched with sweat. This is perfect. "So, erm. First things first," Harry pushes sweaty hair out of his eyes, patting it down. At least it might stay in place, for once. C'mon Potter, don't cock this up now. "Is there anything you lot know about Dark Magic? Anything you've heard?" There is deafening silence. 

Harry stands up, moves his hands about. "Okay, show of hands. Anybody?" Still nothing, just looks at each other and biting lips and lowering heads. "Alright," he claps his hands. "First word that comes into your head when you hear the words 'dark magic'." He gestures at a child. "We'll make a game of it, left side and right side, I'll put down the words you pick, go." 

He turns his back and picks up a bit of chalk to use on the board, heart hammering madly as he waits. There are scuffles and murmurs and then a cough. 

"Er, I've got one, sir?" A tiny girl lifts her hand and then stands up on her seat, as she's in the back and practically dwarfed by the desk in front of her. Harry is reminded fleetingly of Hermione and sees suddenly how brave it is for her to put up her hand with a possible answer when no one else has tried, and it's highly possible you could be wrong.

"Yes! That's great, okay," Harry breathes heavily in relief, smiling at her in encouragement. "Go right ahead." 

"Well, dark magic is... Dark!" She blurts in a bumble of enthusiasm. 

And that is _not_ like Hermione.... 

Giggles erupt around her, but Harry nods enthusiastically back before she does anything but hang her head in the beginnings of embarrassment. "Dark, yes, that's a start! Good. Point for your side. Anything else?" 

When he actually writes a tally mark on the board, the room erupts with ideas. 

"Bad magic," someone else says. 

"Yes, very bad magic, what else?" Another mark. 

"Scary," 

"Skeevy stuff, like people prob'ly use it to rob banks or sumpin," offers a skinny little kid. 

"Yes, right, right, though sometimes people rob banks because a bad person had erm, stolen something and put it inside...," Harry looks at twenty-odd pairs of eyes and chuckles awkwardly. "Well, erm, never mind about that. Alright, it's scary, dark, bad, anything else?" 

"Powerful," somebody says, and there are nods. 

"Right," Harry's heart has slowed and he comes back to stand before them, features serious. "It can be very powerful. And how would someone defend themselves from this type of magic?" 

"Run," one child offers. "Run really fast." 

There are giggles. But Harry nods. "That's what we'd all like to do, in a perfect world," he says. "Just get away. But what would you do if you couldn't get away? What are some other options? Call them out, go on." He beckons, and is elated when the kids answer eagerly.

"Hide!"

"Get help."

"Fight, or scream really loud."

"I'd throw up on them," one boy suggests with a grin.

There's a chorus of "ewwww!"

"Well they wouldn't want to use any dark magic on me if I could get them sick!" He protested.

This kid is going places, Harry thinks. "Those are all valid ideas," Harry says. "I mean, throwing up is a little gross but if you can do it on command and the other person starts running, good on you." He thinks of a particular pair of redheaded friends of his and their incredibly popular Puking Pustules. Has to clear his head as he nods and pulls out his wand. "Okay, so, there is a basic way to protect yourself that is very powerful, and it's what we all really want to do. It's what we're trying with the running and the fighting and the vomiting, yes? We want to protect ourselves." 

There are still some "ewwws" but the consensus is "yes!" 

"So I'm going to teach you the shield charm, okay? I need everyone to repeat after me. Protego!" 

"Protego!" They all say. 

Harry is overwhelmed for an instant by all the voices responding to his. He blinks and smiles. "Yeah, that's it, well done. Now, I need you to stand and hold out your hands to make a jabbing motion, like this." He demonstrates with his wand. "Strong jab, like you're poking something...," 

Rest of class goes well, Harry feels as though he had been chucked into the deep end but teaching is not as daunting as he had thought. He magicks up some enormous pillows for the kids to fall on, and moves the desks out of the way to practise. He is treated to a chorus of "Bye Mr Potter!" As he waves them all off with instructions to keep working on the charm for next time. 

Teaching could be all right, easy, in fact. 

Second class comes along and blows that perception right out the window. Harry feels lucky to reach his first break, which translates to HIM having a class to go to rather than another to teach. He sits at the back of Potions and mentally prepares himself for third class, which is a bunch of over-it thirteen year olds.

And _then_ he breaks for lunch. 

"Oi Harry," Ron sits down next to him with a grin. "... How's teaching going?" 

Harry drops his face into his hands and groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is Harry's first official day of teaching  
> No, I don't think he'll ever stop being the professor who runs into class just before it starts (or even after it starts) with hair a mess and tie askew and paperwork flying everywhere, that's just how he rolls. He was terrified, but at least the first lesson went fine
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	9. When You Know She's No High Climber...

Harry shouldn't be surprised, really, when the first instance he hears of House issues comes from Ginny hexing somebody. Or the first issue he has to deal with, rather. He had half expected Hermione to be the first, if it wasn't him trading insults with Malfoy. 

They have skirted around each other, in Potions with Professor Slughorn dithering a bit and appearing so much older than he had before the battle, his hands shake as he shows the ingredients for calming potions and draughts to ease headaches and soften sleep - "This would be the time to use the Draught of Living Death, eh?" Ron murmurs to Harry in the back. 

Harry nods in agreement. He has been going through the Defense Primer and his own textbook as well as trying to think of what sort of vocational aspects he can teach the younger students about defense. His batch of smart-aleck thirteen year olds had asked why he didn't just teach them to use Expelliarmus? "You used that all the time against every bad guy you fought, didn't you, Professor Potter?"

He looked back at the student who'd asked and responded "Yes, it was the last spell I cast against Voldemort actually, and he died." Harry levels his gaze sharply on the kids. "I really hope I won't have to use it in a situation like that again...," 

Words hang in the air and the insinuation factor gets the Third Years to hush up, for a bit. Sixth Years? Forget it, they still want to gossip. Fourth Years are better, though Harry has to swallow the lump in his throat every time he catches the eye of Dennis Creevey, who remains small and who looks so much like his older brother, other than the fact that Dennis doesn't have a camera always attached to his face. Harry understands the appeal of viewing the world as it is, without looking through a lens.

But the world as it is can be tough, especially when the first demerits one is forced to give to one's House come at the expense of one's girlfriend. 

*** 

It's the first Seventh Year class, on a Thursday, and Harry is having everyone write down what they learned last year so he will know exactly how to proceed. There are grumbles and groans, and someone says snidely "What d'you THINK we learned last year, Potter? With the Carrows and all, plus ol' Snape in charge. But wait, you were besties with him, weren't you?" 

A tone of that sort can only belong to one person. "Smith," Harry nearly sighs, not bothering to answer his questions. "Zacharias. I would ask how you are, but -"

"But you'd realise what a stupid question that is?" Zacharias challenges, eyes staring into Harry's. "You go gallivanting off doing who-knows-what to SUPPOSEDLY defeat You Know Who last year and then you're back and think you can teach us? That's rich," he scoffs.

Ginny, two rows in front of him, stiffens and says coolly "You'd better shut your mouth, Smith."

Harry puts out his hand automatically, eyes widening. Smith smirks. "Oh look, it's the fiery Ginny Weasley coming to the rescue. I forgot, you're dating this knob. Or wait, are you? Because as a matter of fact I don't think I've seen the two of you together -"

"Mind your own business, Smith!" Ginny slams down her quill, spattering a bit of ink on the desktop. She turns and shoots a spell from her wand, the student behind her diving out of the way. "Just do the work, it's not that hard to write what the Carrows taught us. For a hint, nothing besides the gratuitous application of Unforgivable Curses. And I only see one knob here. Also it's Voldemort, for starters. The name. Do you realise how pathetic you sound, still not able to use his name? Or why not just call him Tom Riddle, honestly."

Smith now has an ugly look on his face. "Right, because he was a person," he says, standing up and very deliberately shoving his untouched parchment away. "A person you got brainwashed by once, am I right? So you'd know all about having terrible boyfriends, ay? Haven't really moved up in the world, have -"

Harry sees what is going to happen, he leaps forward with an intent to stop it, shouting "GINNY, NO!" But her face has gone scarlet and she shoots magic at Zacharias that not only sends him spinning across the classroom but causes his legs to flop around like weak little worms. A Jelly-Legs Jinx. Harry has never been so proud of or impressed with her, yet he knows what he has got to do.

She's standing over Smith with eyes blazing as she puts away her wand and says coolly "... doesn't look like you've got a leg to stand on with that shite," and her hair swings as she turns back to face Harry.

Who says softly to her "Gin -" and then, hating himself for having to do it, he closes his eyes and then reopens them to add, far more loudly "Ginny Weasley, I'm taking forty points from Gryffindor and forty from Hufflepuff on account of your and Mr Smith's behaviour,"

"Harry, what?!"

"- and will inform professors Sprout and McGonagall what happened, so they can choose whether or not to administer detention -"

"I was sticking up for myself! And for you!"

 _I know,_ he wants to tell her. _I know, and I love you for it, besides Smith is an idiot, if I could take all the points from his House instead, believe me, I would._ "Professor McGonagall's verdict on relationships between the Houses stands," he says instead. "Will you two -" he gestures at Smith's table mates as the knob in question tries to drag himself to a standing position and flops spectacularly onto his face. "Take him down to the hospital wing, here," Harry scribbles a note to Madam Pomfrey about the jinx and who had cast it, before looking apologetically back at Ginny. "If you need to, we can talk about -"

"No, I don't need," Ginny speaks furiously, snatching the note from Harry's hands herself. "You don't seem to be a good hand at speaking to people outside of this _job_ anyhow. I'll tell Pomfrey what I did to him, and why. I'm sure SHE will understand," She turns and practically charges out, leaving the others to assist Smith in her wake, and everyone else in class to silently bend to their tasks and turn their assignment in. 

Harry sends them all out early after that, dropping to sit on his desk with the bridge of his nose pinched between fingers as he looks over a carefully-rolled piece of parchment that includes itemised information on what the Carrows did last year. Broken down into what would probably laughingly be called units. It's exactly what Harry needs to see in order to know not only precisely how despicable those Death Eaters were, if he hadn't already known it, but where it will probably be best to start teaching this term. And at the bottom is a postscript, wishing him luck.

The lump in Harry's throat is back and hot tears fill and spill out of his eyes as he catches sight of the name upon the parchment, bold and striking and brilliant as its owner. She'd written out her full name, too; he'd always found it to be beautiful.

_Ginevra Weasley._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginny Weasley is amazing, I always wanted to punch Zacharias Smith, and from a teaching perspective, enforcing discipline sucks when you definitely know where at least one student was coming from...and in this case, have been going out with them.... I don't envy Harry a bit.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	10. Then You Find Your Only Friend

Harry is pacing up and down the hallway nearest the hospital wing. He knows that Madam Pomfrey has been mandating times for students to come and speak to her; the offer of assistance from McGonagall is more than an offer. It causes Harry to realise the school matron has more qualifications than he'd ever known before, something akin to what the muggle world calls therapy being one of them. He wonders if there's such a thing as rehabilitation; if that is possible after such a lot in someone's life, the way people in muggle prison are sometimes able to be readied to be a part of society before getting set free, and then Harry shakes his head and tries to focus on what he is doing here.

He wants to help. He's seen the way some kids shy away from others, the older students too, and he wishes there was some sort of foolproof shield charm or something to keep the remembrances of trauma at bay, or to dispell them wholly. Professor Sprout seems to have as much a handle upon that as anyone does; the entirety of Herbology this term is thus far consisting of growing plants and hybrids that create magical poultices and brews to lessen anxieties, to soothe worries, even to help people find the words to express their concerns and fears. Neville has a lot to do with this, Harry realises. 

His fellow Gryffindor has been staying after class and going before, carrying a pair of gardening gloves, some books, and parchment with what Harry is sure contains ideas to grow something like a stress-reducing Mandrake that screams in time with its grower so as to help them expel pent-up emotions.

Harry wonders whether or not that will help Ginny. He went to McGonagall at the end of the day after her spat with Smith, face white and knuckles bulging as he blurted out what happened and begged his professor not to give her the worst sort of detention "It was my fault anyway, I should have gotten Smith to be quiet, if I -"

"Miss Weasley understands the consequences of her actions, Mr Potter. She spoke to me in my office earlier and explained what happened. She understands why you acted as you did and holds no ill-will towards you for it."

Harry had gaped. "What? Professor, she was _furious_ with me -"

"Potter, I would suggest you find a way to speak with Miss Weasley in a manner that is comfortable to yourselves," McGonagall looks at him over her glasses "and figure out what you need to figure out. In the meantime, as you are currently sitting with me, I have heard some good things about your first week of teaching classes." The sharp features of the stern witch soften and then she is all business again. "Now. Why don't you outline for me your plans for the next fortnight?"

"Oh! Erm -"

***

Harry stayed in McGonagall's office with her for more than an hour, during which she showed him a sample lesson plan and helped him create some of his own. "You need objectives," she says. "Specific goals that your students must complete by the end of class, like so. 2.1. Students in Transfiguration will be able to successfully recall and utilise the spell to turn a living creature into a goblet."

"Feraverto," offers Harry in remembrance of the magnificent crystal goblet she had made next to Ron's very furry rat-tailed one, and he receives a nod.

"Very good, Potter. Now the trick of teaching is to create objectives that are achievable but not too easy, and to be able to accurately assess whether or not a student has mastered the specified technique, information, or ability you expect of them in each of your objectives."

"...or if they're just copying off their friend's work, more like," Harry returns. 

The older professor twinkles. "Precisely."

Pacing up and down the hall now in the dark, it being incredibly late, Harry had not realised - he wonders how many times McGonagall had changed or lowered marks on him and his mates because he and Ron definitely copied off Hermione....

Doors open and close in the distance, and Harry's head shoots up. He was meaning to wait for Ginny as he'd heard that Pomfrey had asked her to return to the hospital wing for a chat or two (from Hermione, who'd mentioned to Ron and to Harry that she's worried about Ginny. Ron had shrugged, saying his sister was always the toughest of them all, but something in his eyes made Harry worry even more than he already has been doing, and so he'd come out tonight to check on Ginny.) 

The problem is, he thinks he sees Goyle and Nott exiting the hospital wing, and Gin is nowhere to be seen. Harry swears softly, wondering whether he'd honestly missed her, and is standing out here, close to midnight, under his invisibility cloak because he can't quite get out of the mindset that he is still a student, and if he has to hear Filch yelling "STUDENT OUT OF BED!" about him, Harry has no compunction of what he would do. 

He still carries a particular piece of parchment, though, that can tell him where Ginny might be. He fumbles in his bag and pulls it out, going to stand by a window where in shines a good bit of moonlight, and he whispers "I solemnly swear -"

But crashing into his head is the fact that Professor Lupin had made this, he and Sirius and Harry's father, and they're all gone and there's no one he can talk to; not only that, but Lupin has a little son, who is alone, as alone as Harry is, and yet it's his fault that Remus died, really, because hadn't he died for Harry? Hadn't Sirius died for Harry, just as his parents had, and Tonks, and Mad-Eye, and Fred... 

Harry's legs have crumpled and he slides down the wall, his vision tunnelling as he gasps out "I'm no good, oh, I'm not -"

"Blimey, Harry," a familiar voice speaks pleasantly beyond the roaring in his ears. "Thought as a poltergeist I'd see sooo much more mischief in the hallways, but all I get is the Chosen One curled up in the hospital corridor. I know it must be tough living as a scrawny specky git, but do cheer up, you're alive!"

Harry's gasps become a sigh and he spits "I can't just 'cheer up', Fred. Why don't you try saying something like that to - George -" Harry's voice squeaks and chokes, breaking as he fully realises who he is talking to. _"Fred?!"_ he spins on the floor, vision returning as he sucks in air to see and feel a cool presence beside him, that familiar face and form, red hair the brightest colour in the moonlight, albeit far more transparent looking than he's used to. "Fred, you -" Harry gulps and shuts his eyes. "I've cracked," he mumbles. "This is it, it's first week teaching, Malfoy is driving me up a wall, I can't sleep or talk to Ginny, and I've gone off my head from all the strain."

There is a moment of, dare he think it, dead quiet and then "Nah, but nice try, mate. Really I admire the lengths to which you're going to fit this into your vision of reality, but alas it's really me." Fred floats around Harry, winking at him. He reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair with one ghostly hand, and the temperature above Harry's head does drop. "I'm really here, you're not dreaming. Took Peeves's place as poltergeist, bugger went and fixed up the castle with his powers after the battle, and you aren't a poltergeist anymore once ya go THAT good." Fred clicks his tongue and Harry thinks yeah, the castle does look a lot better than he had expected, having whole towers blown out and everything. He had expected magic means to fix it, but didn't know they'd be _Peeves's_ magical means. Maybe that's why he's been getting lost climbing to the Astronomy Tower even as he's gone every single year. 

Harry focuses back, his heartbeat having slowed a bit, to Fred's cheerful commentary on Peeves having "given enough hell" and he talks about being a ghost, great boon to know all the secret passages in the castle. He's been switching all the stairs and scaring the crap out of First Years. "I'm doing pretty well for all that. Want me to get Ginny stuck in a Vanishing Stair for you?" He now asks, and Harry is abruptly reminded of what he had been doing out here in the first place.

"I - no thanks, Fred. Appreciate the sentiment, but. I haven't really been... talking with Ginny lately. Or anything." His chest aches at the thought.

"I know that, Harry, it's _clear_ to me," he jokes. "...and not to mention mad! Absolutely bonkers, so I've gotta ask ya, what's going on? Unlike George, I'm all ears." He wiggles both ghostly appendages, flipping himself upside down and peering closely at Harry with an open face, seeming fully willing to listen, and despite all the hell he is presently experiencing, Harry starts to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madam Pomfrey is doing her best to help everyone
> 
> Neville has taken it upon himself to become Professor Sprout's teaching assistant. I love him
> 
> Fred Weasley, the poltergeist at Hogwarts, is something I wanted, and I think Peeves would be a good ghostie and help the school, but poltergeists are meant to raise hell, so in doing good, he expelled himself, but stayed around long enough to teach Fred some tricks - though he's already got tons up his sleeves anyway :) this is self-indulgent on my part, but I adore Fred and also really wanted someone to be there for Harry (someone else, I mean. I think it could be less pressure, talking to a ghost)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	11. In a Room with Your Two-Timer

Harry walks down hallways with Fred floating beside him, and it is utterly surreal yet somehow also seems so blooming _normal_ ; like days before and after quidditch practise when he would sit with the chasers and the twins and talk through thoughts on life ("The game of life one plays according to the rules. Hah! What rules?") or even about crushes. Harry never really asked for girl advice; Fred would without fail suggest the most outlandish, zany ways for Harry to get someone's attention and George enthusiastically joined in. The time they both suggested he sing his "EYES ARE AS GREEN AS A FRESH-PICKLED TOAD, HAIR IS AS DARK AS A BLACKBOARD" Valentine's song as loud as possible was the day that Harry inwardly made a pact with himself never to bring up crushes around the twins again, even obliquely.

But he had been going with Ginny already at that point (well they'd had their first kiss after the quidditch match and had gone off for a walk around the castle grounds), they had only been off by necessity last year. "But were you really 'off' with her, Harry? C'mon," Fred wheedles. "You two were still getting off together."

"Don't be absurd," Harry splutters. "I-I was -"

"Running through forest and field and glen after pieces of Voldy's mouldy old soul, I remember now," Fred makes a show of thumping himself on the head, floating through a tapestry and dramatically splaying his body across a wall. "But you totally thought about her still."

"Of course I did, all the time. Even in the forest, at the last." Harry thought of the look on her face, the feeling of her lips against his.

"You were willing to die thinking to the very last about the one you love the most," Fred's tone has gone serious, for him. He floats back down and adds "Last thought I had was to tell George I couldn't believe Perce was joking with me," and then before Harry can fall apart from hearing that, he adds "Have you thought of talking to Ginny about all this, though? I'm going to stop you right there with a no, because of course you haven't," he flips himself through the air and puts up a hand to silence Harry's protestations. "You really ought to do something, mate. Take it from the bloke who laughed at everyone and everything, including the people he loved."

He floats forward, Harry pausing and then hurrying to keep up with him. "Wait. Are you suggesting to me that laughing at the people you love and playing endless pranks on them is a good thing, or not...?"

***

Eventually Harry makes his way back up to the Tower, speaks the password, and shuffles carefully as he can up to bed, his conversation with Fred playing over and over in his head. _You'll see me again,_ his friend had said. _Don't you worry, Harry. I'll catch up with the others too. Tell Georgie whenever you talk to him that he's always got my hand, eh? He'll know what it means. You're gonna be all right, mate,_ he had whispered really loudly at the last, giving Harry a double thumbs-up. _Just don't forget to laugh every once in awhile! And talk to Ginny!_ he added, with another one of his overdramatic winks before disappearing into one of the suits of armour and causing its helmet to fall with an incredibly loud _CRASH!_

Which did, indeed, send Filch running through the corridors and Harry hissing an exasperated "thanks a lot, Fred!" Before managing to open and read the map this time, and bursting into a hidden corridor and up to Gryffindor Tower. 

Which, once he makes it to his dormitory and clears the map with "Mischief managed!" Harry hears the sounds of whimpering and groans, an inarticulate shout and then pleading.

"No, no, I don't, I don't want to do it, I want them to be safe -!" Harry stops dead, as the light through a half-uncovered window along with the hindsight of a memory that shudders through him, mirroring the sounds of shrieking in pain, informs him that the owner of said terrified vocals is in fact Malfoy. His white-blond head is tossing and turning on his pillow, blankets have been flung hither and yon, even as they appear to be half-strangling him in his bed. His chest heaves erratically and sweat glistens on his face ... Either sweat, or tears. Harry is frozen in an agony of indecision, of shock and empathy too, because he is not the only one who has horrible dreams that make him sweat and wish so desperately to wake. He nearly moves, to go to Malfoy and ...what would he do or say? 

Harry has stepped forward when a movement from the dark makes him whip his wand to point at an imposing form, the whites of eyes shining in the darkness until kneeling on the opposite side of Malfoy's bed is Blaise Zabini. Towering, seemingly judgemental Slytherin, whose elegant smooth features betray nothing of emotion, even as he reaches out a steady hand to rest on Malfoy's shoulder. His rumbling voice speaks "Draco," and a shuddering gasp precedes grey eyes flying open, and Harry moves and ducks behind the curtains of his own four poster, so as not to stay frozen in the open whilst staring and thus to be seen.

Zabini keeps murmuring, his words not quite distinguishable through the cloth and the rustling of Harry kicking off his shoes and socks and trousers, trying to undress for sleep without being too loud or obvious. Luckily snores begin to reverberate throughout the room, and Harry's last sight between his curtains is of Blaise with Malfoy's head and torso pressed against his chest, seeming to shudder as a dark-skinned arm wraps around a pale back. The tall Slytherin boy's dark eyes snap to latch on Harry's face, and the expression in them is crystal clear: 

_You saw nothing, you heard nothing here. Otherwise you'll see and hear your end, Potter._

Harry might have added the last bit himself due to the intensity of the look on Blaise's face, the way his body curls protectively around Malfoy's. But he still accepts it wholeheartedly. Zabini is being a good friend. 

***

Harry does take note of the dark circles under Malfoy's eyes next day, however, and how he leans tiredly over breakfast and appears more sallow and sullen than ever. He is caught in curiosity about Malfoy's dream, and how Blaise was somehow able to comfort him. He is not sure how long it took them both to fall asleep, and whether or not Zabini had stayed with Malfoy in order to comfort him - it isn't Harry's business, but he can't help being curious. Especially because no one has ever been able to comfort him after his own dark dreams...

"Your move, Harry," Ron says impatiently, and Harry is snapped back to the moment. Having classes of his own to teach and not sleeping in the same dormitory really lessens his contact with Ron, and unless quidditch is to start soon (Harry hasn't a clue whether or not it will be had this year) his longest interactions with his best friend are during meals and class breaks. Or as at this moment, maximising the interaction potential by playing Wizards Chess whilst eating breakfast.

"Sorry, Ron." Harry refocuses on their chess game. He has not seriously played in years, and has no idea whether or not his best mate has, but judging by the pile of broken pieces on Ron's side of the table, Harry is getting destroyed. He takes a bite of his egg sandwich and mutters his next move, which gets a Bishop walloped by the Queen. "Damn!" He grits his teeth. Ron smirks with pride. 

"Ah come on Harry, I want you to at least potentially beat me," Ron rips a bit of chicken off a drumstick happily. How he manages to eat chicken legs for breakfast, Harry still has no idea. Hermione is looking vaguely disgusted from her seat beside him, and Millicent Bulstrode, enormous form as she has, has nearly squashed Hermione's slighter frame as she reaches for the nearest jug of juice. 

Harry finds himself studying the large girl with interest. She has been in and out of their presence in one way or another several times: with Hermione's ill-fated batch of Polyjuice Potion their second year, and as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad in Fifth - Harry wants to retch as he thinks of Umbridge, but settles for clenching his left first instead, the pale scars just beneath his fingers faint yet still there, indelible. As much a part of him as the scar upon his forehead. But she's a mystery, Millicent. Doesn't talk, or doesn't like to, much, it seems; she is one of the girls rooming with Hermione and they haven't seemed to broker any particular sort of animosity. "She likes cats," Hermione says when Harry asks if there's anything going on. "So I let her pet Crookshanks. He went over to her, actually. Of his own accord." That seems to inspire Hermione to give Millicent a chance. "I trust his judgement."

"Come on, Harry!" Ron's tone is exasperated as he knocks his knuckles on the table, making Harry blink and focus on the moment again. "Blimey, you're off somewhere this morning. Didja not get enough sleep last night?"

"No, I did," Harry replies. For once. That causes him to think once more of Malfoy, and he looks up to see the other exiting the Great Hall on his own with a withering glare for good measure. Zabini is not with him, or anywhere near him, and Harry wonders if last night he had been hallucinating. Would not put it past his mind, he _had_ been talking to Fred - 

But a presence passes behind him and a deep voice says "Use your knight." Harry's body jerks a bit and he cranes his neck to see Blaise pausing behind him, chin jutting towards his and Ron's chess game. "E5 can take the Queen" 

He's gone as Ron gasps "oi!" in aggravation. "That's cheating!" But Ron's ire dissolves into surprise as both of them stare a second at Zabini's retreating back, moving on to class as if nothing had happened before Harry can even nod to him in thanks (or at the very least in recognition of what he'd done).

"Who knew he knew anything about Wizards Chess?"

"More than that, why would he help you out with it, Harry?"

"Dunno. I'd have thought a Slytherin would be ecstatic to see me look pathetic." Yet with that and a couple more moves, they'd gotten to Harry putting Ron in Check, and Ron says they can finish the rest of the game later. Harry's eyebrows knit as he watches after Blaise. By all accounts, or at least one made in the space of minutes, Blaise Zabini is Draco Malfoy's friend. Why then would he in particular have been watching out for Harry, even in as brief and miniscule a manner as suggesting useful chess moves? 

It is something of an irony that Harry ponders as he makes his way to class in step with Ron, behind Millicent and Hermione.

That, and the fact he knows that he really needs to take Fred's advice and talk to Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's getting/has gotten some interesting advice, Malfoy has nightmares, Blaise is a good friend to him (ssh don't tell anyone about it) and he also knows Wizards Chess better than Harry. 
> 
> *There's a little nod to the end of the first book/movie with what Blaise suggests Harry do in the chess game because I had to ;)
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	12. ...And You're Sure You're Near the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During and after a conversation in the Common Room
> 
> WARNING for triggers in this chapter - slurs, descriptions of self-harm, blood and gore

Weeks go by.

Harry gets into the rhythm of teaching and grading, going to classes himself and doing homework, staying up until all hours to look over assignments and work on lesson plans (and sometimes to avoid sleep and therefore his own consistently dark dreams, if he's being honest). He knows he could go see Madam Pomfrey, that he should do so, probably, to ask her for something to help him deal with the dreams; but there are so many students who need her ministrations more, and who must continue to meet with her and talk in the evenings.

Harry still has not managed to speak with Ginny about anything of real importance, but he did manage to get the quidditch pitch open for practise. Hasn't found enough time himself to hold official tryouts or to be on the team this year, but suggested that McGonagall shift the captainship to Ginny instead of him, and he goes to sit in the stands and grade papers outdoors when he can, finding the sight of brooms flying over him, along with the sound of Ginny's shouts and whistles, calming.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is the inter-House room assignments. Malfoy and his nightmares are not the only concerns; Pansy Parkinson ended up affected by a complex series of hexes in a sort of cocoon affixed to a corridor wall (and being haunted by a mischievous spirit until her muffled screams had attracted attention and gotten her set free) due to a complicated spell after everybody else rooming with her in the tower swore that they wouldn't do so any longer. Even Millicent Bulstrode had thrown in her lot with the others. McGonagall brought the girls to talk in her office, according to Hermione when she spoke to Ron and Harry about it later, and "Millicent said anyone who would suggest sending someone to die - outright like she'd done, too - especially the one person who was actually able to stop the havoc wreaked by a maniac is not someone she could stomach sharing quarters with." 

"She called You Know Who a maniac?" Ron is awed. 

"Slow down, Ronald," Hermione retorts. " - but yes, she called Voldemort a maniac, and told Professor McGonagall what all Pansy has been saying. It's been pretty horrible, actually," Hermione blinks rapidly. "We all tried to deal with it, because of the unity thing, and I - I didn't want to let Professor McGonagall down." Her lower lip begins to tremble. "But then she said the world would be better off if Harry was dead, and if all of the mudbloods knew their place...,"

"Which wasn't even doing magic according to her, right?" Ron is furious and stares incredulously at her to boot. "I'd have sent her out hexed first week - what took you so long?"

"She, she only just said that," Hermione looks apologetically at Harry, eyes filling with tears. "On account of you teaching us, Harry. She said some awful things about that, too, and how far the best have fallen, to let a useless half-blood be in charge of stifling the most powerful magics, and I couldn't let her - you're my best friend," Hermione is gulping as if to swallow down sobs, and Harry puts down his parchment and quill.

"It's okay, Hermione," he says to her, automatically shifting and opening his arms. She scoots across the bench on which they are both sitting and buries herself into them, head in his chest. He rocks her back and forth and holds on tightly, touched to the core that she would risk whatever trouble she and her dorm-mates might get into by sticking up for him that way. Pansy has been isolated, at least for now, and Harry considers the rest of them lucky that nothing else of that sort has happened in the room they share.

He is shocked nothing has happened between any of the boys, to be honest. Everyone ignores Goyle, Ron says, as he had made it very clear he detested all of them for the fact that his family is in Azkaban and his best friend is dead. "EVEN though Crabbe tried to kill you and all the rest of us would've been collateral damage, Harry," Ron's voice cracks in fury. "But that seems to've slipped his mind! Ah well, when you're a troll with a face like a baboon's backside...," 

Harry shoots a look over to Goyle's other, previous best friend, who is brooding by the fire, making bursts of silver erupt from his wand over top of the flames. Blond head gleaming in the firelight as he turns and pulls a face at Harry, feeling the other's eyes upon him. "What are you staring at, Potter?" He calls.

"Nothing of interest, Malfoy," Harry shoots back evenly.

Nobody else looks up anymore, they are all used to Harry's back and forth with Draco, and it has not escalated beyond what happened first night of the shared dorm. No hexes or duelling. All they ever do when in the same area, as the Common Room now, is stare distrustfully at one another.

Neville, Justin, Ernie, and Hannah have begun chatting about the idiosyncrasies and enjoyments of having Professor Sprout as one's Head of House - "she's got no filter, Neville, no filter!"

"Really?"

"Really, she told someone one time that they should never ever consider a career that has anything to do with magical plants. Or living things in general."

Neville's hazel eyes grow enormous. He cannot imagine Professor Sprout saying a thing like that. "Blimey, what did that person _do?_ "

"...Put a silencing charm on a baby Mandrake."

"But - that's - screaming, it's what they do," Neville is both nonplussed and growing steadily more uncomfortable. "That's - it's a natural part of their development. Poor little mandrake," he murmurs.

"Right, so now you see why she said that."

"Valid reason, really," Ernie sniffs. "Personally, there are some adults who ought to hear such a thing from someone like her, in my opinion," he leans in and raises his eyebrows. 

"You mean particular adults?" Ron has turned around in his seat, having given up playing Harry in chess, he leaves the board out and ready to play, and Blaise Zabini leans over and mutters to the pieces. Harry thinks he must be listening to the current conversation as those swooping eyebrows of his have knitted and there's a bit of a wrinkle in his smooth forehead. Plus he's sitting almost directly across from Ron, and just because he hasn't called anyone in the Weasley family "a filthy little blood traitor" yet this year, does not mean it makes any sort of sense for _Blaise Zabini_ to have gone from offering assistance in a chess game to calmly sitting and waiting for Ron Weasley to make his next move.

But Ron has gotten into the conversation about adults who deserve a good dressing down, and has taken the turn of it from any adults to particularly professors, which makes Hermione sigh wearily and Harry notices Malfoy tensing up. Neville shifts, seems as if he feels awkward about the turn this conversation has taken - and it doesn't help that Seamus and Dean now come bounding in, cheeks flushed from the late October chill, Dean shaking a bit of rainwater onto Seamus's head as if he was a dog, and Seamus in the same instant shoving Dean before leaning into him, the taller fellow's arm snaking around Seamus's stocky back and his fingers clutching the side of his friend's waist, just above his belt loops. "Who's been the worst professor we've had, anyway?" Seamus asks, and Harry half-expects someone to say him, either snidely or even joking, so he is surprised as well as gratified to hear other names brought up.

Someone mentions Quirrell, but mostly as kind of a dud, he gibbered too much to be bad at teaching anyway. Lockhart is cited as an absolute git due to everything he ever tried to do - "Decided to bring in those pixies and didn't even know a good charm to repel them! But oh, right, Hermione you had a crush on him," Ron scrunches up his nose in disgust and Harry almost smiles. How many years has it been, and how many more will it be, until Ron is no longer disgusted by Lockhart? Harry's a bit disgusted by him as well, however, so that's all right.

He dips his checking quill in green ink to write a note on one of his student's papers - still has to inwardly pinch himself about the fact he, Harry Potter, has students - and hears reminiscing about the troll that Quirrell set off into the dungeon, and if they really want to talk about a professor being cruel to living things, they should talk about Moody -

"...It was fake Moody, does that still count?"

"Y'know Mad-Eye would probably have acted the exact same as Crouch if he taught a class," Ron mumbles. Hermione shoves his arm.

"Ron, that's terrible!"

"But true, innit? C'mon, Hermione, you remember the man! He was absolutely mental!"

"You know who was the most awful and mental... Umbridge."

There is a chorus of vehement disgust 

"But none comes close to Snape, bringing in a parcel of Death Eaters like he did," Seamus bursts out in fury, having taken off his slicker and rolled up his shirtsleeves in the heat of the room, showing, perhaps unintentionally, scars the Carrows had given him. Luna, off dreamily in the corner for the duration of this conversation, looks sad; Dean leans into Seamus and pulls him as if automatically against his side, and Neville looks both sorrowful and a bit sick. Poor Neville, having just been laughing over Herbology....

But Harry feels his stomach twist, knowing more of Snape, and all that was done by Umbridge in school and out, and he stands with a stolid certainty and shake of the head. 

"Umbridge is still the worst of the lot."

*** 

The particular tenor of that conversation died then, going on to other things. Harry went and tossed a bit of scratch parchment into the fire, and caught Malfoy's gaze as the Slytherin's nostrils flare and he boils upright, snarling "You'd think that, wouldn't you, Potter? Oh-so-sure," and he'd shoved himself out of his chair and swished on through the room, upstairs to the dorms. 

Harry catches Ron's shrug, a worried, seemingly confused look in Neville's eyes, and Hermione telling him with concern - warning him, rather - "Don't go up there right now, Harry," but he has finished his grading for the night and wants to put those papers away before starting on his own homework.

So he gathers his things and heads upstairs to find Malfoy, shoulders heaving, face pinched in fury as he throws himself at his own bed, slamming books and things into his trunk. "You're delusional, Potter, holding the torch for Professor Snape -"

Harry had gone in and put his students' work down, carefully withdrawing his essay for History of Magic and shutting up the case with a wave of his wand before turning. "I'm telling you, Malfoy, Snape was -"

"'The bravest man you ever knew', yeah, I heard that rubbish, Potter. First time you said it, and the whole of the bloody castle is going to hear you but it doesn't mean shite to me! He was my teacher. My favourite teacher, the head of my House, and he didn't do a bloody thing for me until my mother begged him to. They made an Unbreakable Vow - that's right, Potter, your little insight didn't tell you? But it was all because of what SHE asked, not for me! Never just for me!" Malfoy is nearly screaming, spittle flies from his lips as he wipes his mouth and whirls on Harry, keeping on, pale features screwed up. "Nobody gave a damn about me, it was about my family, our pride of blood, of place, what we could do for ourselves and for Voldemort." His body is heaving as he adds "The only time I ever got somewhere by myself, for myself was when I was put on the Inquisitorial Squad." His eyes narrow as he gets into Harry's face, leaping across his own bed, fingers out and jabbing into the other's chest. "You all hated Professor Umbridge but she trusted us. Trusted ME. Because I signed up, I followed her rules."

"Her rules were barbaric!" Harry spits, shoving Malfoy back, a red haze rising and roaring in his ears. "She was bloody horrible! She carved letters into the skin of _children--_ "

"Oh, yeah?! What's this, then?" Draco shrieks, ripping up his sleeve to show the Dark Mark emblazoned on his arm. It almost seems to be pulsing angrily, as if his fury is strengthening it, causing it to wake --

"Malfoy," Harry's eyes are huge. His ire may have risen at the positive reference made to Umbridge, but he tries to stoke the flame. "Alright, you - you need to calm down."

"Why should I?" Draco flings himself away, raising his wand towards Harry, who holds up his hands defensively. "Because Precious Potter says so, oh look at him, trying to keep me down, tell me all the wrong I did...well I know, all right? I know what you want! This thing gone, ME gone -" he grits his teeth, knuckles bulging round the length of his wand as he abruptly turns it to jab against his own skin beside the Dark Mark...

Harry lunges "Draco -"

But he is too late to stop the slicing motion or the utterance of a spell in a broken whisper, the bursts of light slashing into Malfoy's skin and howling agony as its pale expanse is covered with red, oozing, spurting, welling up -

_The way it had two years ago, from rents through Malfoy's robes deep into his chest_

No -

_He had fallen back against the sink as Myrtle started screaming, his pale hands shaking as a crimson pool of blood stained and dropped from his robes, dripping into water already covering the floor, soaking, spreading. It widened_

Malfoy -

Tearing of cloth and hands on a swathe of softness, tying in a knot around Malfoy's arm beneath his elbow and above the now mutilated Mark. "Hang on, Draco," Harry gasps, teeth gritted, not registering his use of Malfoy's first name, only knowing he has got to get him to the hospital wing quickly, there's no time - there's got to be some way - "Kreacher," Harry speaks plainly, attempting to sound firm. "I need you in Gryffindor Tower, now."

There is silence but for whimpers and thrashing, Harry clutching Malfoy and seeing, hearing the drips of blood - no, he has seen enough of that for a lifetime - and then an enormous _CRACK_ precedes Kreacher, bulbous nose and flopping ears and tiny apron, standing before him and looking cross. "Couldn't wait until after Kreacher cleans," the house elf hisses spitefully. "No, of course not."

"You can be as peeved at me as y' want later, Kreacher," Harry gasps. "But right now Malfoy needs help, he needs the hospital."

Kreacher's eyes shift to the blond hair of the mostly limp form in Harry's arms. "Master Malfoy -"

"He tried to get rid of his Dark Mark," Harry says. "Bit like Regulus, what he tried to do. Late, but. I, we've got to help him, Kreacher. Please." No matter how much Harry shouts at him or would feel immensely satisfied to hex Malfoy for things he's said and done, he cannot bear to lose him, to have anyone else die. For him, around him, or because of him. 

He is desperate, and the house elf nods, once, and steps up to Harry's side, knobbly fingers grasping the sleeve of his robes as with another _CRACK_ he transfers them into the hospital wing, empty save for Madam Pomfrey sitting in a chair, reading. She nearly falls from the chair with a gasp of "Mr Potter! What on earth is the - oh," catching sight of Malfoy, she beckons immediately for Harry to "Bring him over here," already waving her wand to accio cloths and bandages and stitching as an attempt to mop up blood, stop the continuation "It isn't stopping yet, the bleeding. Could you -"

"Yes I'll do whatever you need me to, of course," Harry throws off his robes, having given Malfoy to Madam Pomfrey. She lays the blond in bed and bustles to work on his arm. 

"Was he hexed?" She is tugging at the makeshift tourniquet that is a bit of curtain from Harry's bed, asking if he had tied the knot himself, to which he nodded, sleeves up, body bent and hands pressing the bandage into Malfoy's wound, soaking up the blood.

"He - he hexed himself," Harry croaks, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "I dunno the spell, he said it so quick and soft and I -" he stops as Malfoy starts to thrash again, and Madam Pomfrey wets a towel and places it on the blond's forehead to soothe him, waving at one of her multitudinous poultice and potion bottles to bring something that will relax him and help with the pain. Hopefully. 

"Good quick thinking getting him to me, anyway." She says.

Harry shakes his head. "It was Kreacher's doing, I just called him to help."

"Thank you, Kreacher," the matron said, and she asks the elf if he will go for "Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn, please." The house elf nods once and disappears, leaving Harry shaking as Madam Pomfrey wraps gauze round Malfoy's arm and affixes it with a wave of her wand. She nudges Harry to have him lift up his hands, and tells him that he needs to ensure he washes them. "Are you all right?" She checks on Harry, looking into his face and at his arms and legs. He nods, gesturing for her to focus on Malfoy, that he is fine - "So," she asks because she has to know, this seems like far more than a simple cut, there is much going on here. "Mr Malfoy made these cuts himself, Potter?"

Harry looks up at her, still shaking, blinking himself out of the memories of the last time he had seen Malfoy like this, but then it had been his, Harry's, fault. "I, yes. He said he knew we -" _I_ "wanted this thing" _the Dark Mark, his forced connection to Voldemort_ "- gone, so he, he slashed it out of his skin." He does not mention that Malfoy had said he, Harry, wanted Malfoy gone too. If Harry had been thinking more clearly _"What did I save your life in the Room of Requirement for, then?"_ he would have retorted. But he looks at Madam Pomfrey helplessly, feeling so so tired as she magicks him a chair and murmurs that his Head of House will be coming soon, and he wonders, the question pounding through his skull with an ache as sharp and acute as ever he had felt from the scar on his forehead:

_Was Malfoy right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not intend to excuse any of Snape's, Malfoy's, or god forbid, Umbridge's actions. All have done wrong and been cruel.  
> Harry has some serious issues as well with his intense need to apologise for Snape, to see him as brave. I have a lot of personal problems with what Snape did, DEFINITELY with what Umbridge did, but I stand by the thought that Malfoy was forced by virtue of his age and his family into awful things. He was abused in that way, and deserves help.  
> EDIT: At seventeen years old, no matter what has occurred in their life experience, a person's brain is not fully developed. They are adults, yes, in the wizarding world - but in full command of everything they can do, no. Malfoy was coerced by a lot of more powerful and abusive adults, such as his aunt Bellatrix and his father, as well as Voldemort. 
> 
> Am I making excuses for the rampant bullying and cruelty, no. Malfoy should stone for all of that.  
> I think comparisons of blood purity to race relations are incredibly tricky, and I do not intend to say that what he did was not horrible. What I AM saying is there are many shades of grey in the world, wizarding or not. 
> 
> Responses appreciated <3


	13. You Love a Little Wild One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hospital wing
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: References to self harm, blood and gore, a panic attack, and discussion of attempted suicide.

Minerva McGonagall has seen too much. 

Too much of sorrow and of evil, too many of her students getting hurt because of things beyond their control, and even worse, due to occurrences and thus consequences of their own making. She has been through and seen more than enough awfulness over the years. And yet, she does not know what to expect when Kreacher the house elf comes to her office with Professor Slughorn in tow, looking as if he has been dragged out of bed - the man even has a nightcoat on, and is blinking and yawning.

"Ah! Hello, Minerva, yes. This little fellow mentioned something about one of my students being in the hospital wing with one of yours -"

"Who is it?" McGonagall is already out of her chair and through her office door upon hearing Slughorn's words, focusing on Kreacher to ask her question of him. 

"Master Malfoy," the elf asserts. "Kreacher brought him. Him and - Potter."

Minerva feels her entire heart drop. "Potter?" She lengthens her strides upon hearing that particular pair of names, her hair coming down from its usual neat bun as she clutches the neck of her robes in one hand and uses the other, outstretched, to push through doors until she slams through those of the hospital wing. "Poppy, what's happened?" She asks of Madam Pomfrey without preamble, her voice snapping with worry, and the matron rushes to reassure her. 

"Potter is physically fine, Minerva. Malfoy, I have gotten him stable," she nods to a bed in the corner with a face resting on a pillow that is a whiter shade of pale than the pillowcase, one arm folded across his chest, swathed in bandages, and next to the still form with chest rising and falling shallowly is a slumped body with unruly head of black hair tousled even more than typical. 

Round glasses are askew, and his thin cheek is pillowed upon the arm of a knitted jumper - she recognises Molly Weasley's handiwork - and at the foot of the bed are robes that McGonagall registers as being wet with blood, even though they are black. 

The professor's heart goes out and aches as she steps up to and stops beside this young man, both of these young men who have dealt with so much sorrow and pain, and who never wanted nor deserved to be a part of it. Yet one had done so much of darkness whilst the other stayed as best he could in the light. 

She puts a firm hand on the slumped boy's shoulder.

"Potter."

Harry inhales sharply through his nose and shoots upright into wakefulness, disoriented. He straightens his glasses and rubs at his cheek which had stuck a bit to his jumper sleeve and then winces at the twinging in his neck. Reflexively curls and straightens his fingers, registering the slightly rough cloth of bandages around pale skin. Malfoy is here, at least, though what if - Harry pans his eyes around wildly, checking for bloodstains, to see if they are spreading -

"It's all right, Potter, you are in the hospital wing." That is Professor McGonagall's voice. Harry registers her hand on his shoulder and looks up into her fierce caring eyes. His armour crumbles.

"I'm so sorry Professor, we've never liked each other and disciplining the pair of us is probably a horrible task in any circumstances, but I never meant for Malfoy to do this, he thought I wanted -"

He is gibbering, and Minerva has to breathe and hold onto his shoulder, hard. "Mr Pot- Harry," she uses his given name in an attempt to reach and thus soothe him. "You are safe. Mr Malfoy is also safe. Try to take a deep breath, Harry." He does, shoulders heaving, shuddering as he sits upright and does his best to flatten down his hair as he breathes. She beckons for him to move a little away from the bed to speak to her, and keeps her hand comfortingly upon his shoulder. "There now. What happened?"

She sees his throat bob deeply in a swallow as he lifts his hands and runs them through the hair he had just attempted to smooth into place, and as his shoulders straighten and he moves to stand beside her, Minerva watches the terrified features of a boy settle into the heavy appearance of adult burdens. They age him. Years. "We, we were talking about professors," he says. "Not... necessarily the best, erm. Well, Malfoy said some things that boiled down to the fact that he thinks nobody wants him here, and he lifted his wand to slash - to slash the Dark Mark off, out of his arm and... there was so much blood...," _It was so much like the time I cast Sectumsempera on him and had no idea what I was doing - like the blood on Dobby's chest that wouldn't stop welling, I couldn't stop it -_

"Harry?"

Spiralling out of the thoughts, hands on his knees, chest heaving, Harry feels a clenching sensation around his heart, a sharp burst of pain making him feel as though he is having a heart attack. But he sees the moon through the high windows of the hospital wing, blurry but there, and he feels a hand pressing to his back and McGonagall saying sharply "Horace, make yourself useful and get a glass of water, would you?" 

"Here, have a chair," Madam Pomfrey speaks in her soft voice, and Harry is helped to sit. "Just behind you, Potter, that's it." 

Harry's palms feel clammy as Professor Slughorn appears with a water glass, his round face looking so pinched and unhappy as he wraps Harry's fingers around the cold vessel. Harry takes a sip and another, and eventually clears his throat as his heartbeat slows, his chest pains him less.

"And - I called Kreacher," Harry finishes. "With his help we made it here."

McGonagall nods and thanks Kreacher for his invaluable assistance. The elf's only response is a flexing of his fingers and a request to return to the kitchens. But Harry catches sight of a relieved look on the house elf's face. Surely it is because he was able to rescue one young man with past darkness and a mark on his arm, who begins to try but hasn't the belief in his ability to atone for past mistakes. 

"Thank you, Potter. It was a good thing you were there. I think he can return to his dormitory at this juncture, yes?" The Head of Gryffindor House asks. 

Before Madam Pomfrey can answer, she is studying him closely, eyes intent - Harry replies "Erm, if it's alright with you, Professor, I want to stay until Malfoy wakes up." So he knows I didn't kill him, Harry attempts to joke to himself, but the only thing he manages to think, and the thought tears at his innards, is: _so he knows he didn't manage to kill himself. That he should live._ "We should send an owl to his mum," Harry says louder, causing a jump from Professor Slughorn, who still has not spoken, only looking sweaty and sick and sad. Harry knows the feeling. 

The older adults all look at him with various levels of surprise, agreement, and pride. Harry thinks of Narcissa Malfoy's intensity again, that all she wanted to hear from him was that her son still lived. "She needs to know what happened. She should - she should come." Harry gulps. "I can write it myself if you need me to, the note," he offers.

Minerva McGonagall nods, saying she shall see to it (as she will need to ensure the safety of everyone involved if Narcissa Malfoy is to receive an owl and choose to come on campus). The professor sees Harry grown so much older before her eyes again. She also sees in him the mentality of a professor who will do whatever he can to assist a student. No matter how he personally feels. This is not about Harry and Draco being friends or enemies, nor is it solely about their experiences in the wizarding war. 

She sees in this young man the real, altruistic impulse to help and to be present on behalf of another person, and Minerva is more proud of Harry Potter in this moment than she has ever before been.

Which is saying something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professor McGonagall sees the nuances of her students with clear eyes, I think. And she sees how much they have gone through in conjunction with how young they are. I imagine she has been through a lot, watching over the years. I really respect her as a character
> 
> Reactions appreciated <3


	14. And (S)he Brings You Only Sorrow...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A roaring discussion
> 
> TRIGGERS: discussion of self harm, self-loathing, blood and gore, abusive behaviours, and a death wish

Draco Malfoy wakes to a dull, relentless pain throbbing through his lower left arm and extending up into his shoulder as well as through his fingers in the opposite direction. He also has the realisation that yes, as he is in fact, awake and able to feel pain, he must have been taken to hospital. And the only bloody person in the dormitory with him last night who had been near enough to bring him was "- Potter." He sees the git slumped in a chair, one arm outstretched, his fingers slightly curled. Had he been _holding on to Draco's hand?_ No, surely not - but it looks as if he had been holding his arm or something.

Harry sniffs, jerks a little as he lurches upright in the seat Madam Pomfrey had magicked up for him last night. Draco bites the inside of his cheek as Saint Potter, the Chosen One, shifts as if to move closer to him. A mark is visible on the side of his face, reddened from where he had been sleeping with his glasses pressed into his skin. He had slept here, honestly? Before anything more than a wrinkling of Malfoy's nose occurs, Potter clears his throat and rubs his eyes, asking how he's doing.

With a roll of his eyes so significant they appear as if they could pop right out of his head, Malfoy clenches his fist and has to stifle a yelp of agony even as he flicks out his fingers in an obscene gesture. Of course. "How do you THINK I'm doing?!" And then "why did you bring me here, Potter?" He spits.

"I - because you were bleeding!" Harry bursts out "you'd cut up your arm, what was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch while you bled to death?"

"You would have done," Malfoy sneers, blue-grey eyes flat in challenge. "Before. Sixth year, wasn't it? Don't think I don't remember, Potter. Don't YOU remember?" He hisses maliciously, leaning towards Harry even as he feels his stomach lurch from the pain it causes. He jabs an accusatory finger at the other, adding "...you sliced up my chest and were going to let me drown in my own blood."

Harry stares, feeling the terror again, recalling Malfoy staggering back, slipping in his own blood, falling forward -

"And then," those eyes bore into Harry's, still flat, yet they are holding just as much pain.

"- And then Professor Snape saved you," Harry stands, pushing his body out of the seat, hands shaking. "Oh but I'm sure he didn't actually give a damn, he was just doing it because he'd promised your mum -"

Malfoy's good arm shoots out and tangles in Harry's robes as he pulls them back on. "Where are you going now, Potter? Scared?" He sneers. "Why are you so keen on defending him, anyhow? Apologising for him? He's _dead_ in case you haven't noticed!" Sweat stands out on Malfoy's face and his eyes grow wild. The paleness of his skin is growing first pink, and then redder by the second. "He knew what he was doing, Potter! All, the entire time he was playing the fucking odds!" Malfoy's voice cracks and Harry blinks, freezes at that level of swearing out of the posh mouth he'd never thought to hear such language from.

But he has had it. "Really? He didn't HAVE to save your life!" Harry spits. "He hated me so much, he could've just let it slip that I was a lunatic, had gone homicidal -"

"Oh, yeah, famous Harry Potter going homicidal, that's rich," Malfoy scoffs. "Come off it!"

"Oh sod - more than half the school called me a liar when I first said Voldemort was back. I bet people thought _I_ killed Cedric."

Malfoy waves a hand and grunts in pain after. "Eugh, oh please, you were just as torn up as Chang was about Diggory, come on." 

"What? Malfoy, it - that doesn't -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you're brilliant, you brought his body back, you've saved my arse now twice...."

Harry has gotten quiet. He had been making for the exit, as before Malfoy woke Madam Pomfrey had said she was going to bring his mum into the castle quietly, as she had gotten the letter McGonagall sent last night. The matron asked, would Harry stay a bit longer? He said he would, but now he is about to forgo his promise to her. She oughtn't have left, he should walk right out, but Malfoy has pulled himself to sit upright in bed with eyes and face transfigured by fury and agony, and he says words that make Harry's blood run cold.

" _Why?!_ " Draco nearly screams. "Why did you do it, Potter? You should have let me burn!" 

Harry has absolutely no idea what to say. He wouldn't, he COULDN'T let Malfoy die, or Goyle, for that matter - not for something idiotic their friend had done. Not even for all the awful things Malfoy himself had done, or attempted to do. Because Malfoy was a kid who was always told how superior he was, how powerful; and that smug superiority made Harry long to punch him in the face, repeatedly, but being told those things was subversive and destructive. It became so when Malfoy was forced at the age of sixteen to prove it. Just as Harry had been groomed to fight against Voldemort, to know his weaknesses, to fight in a war with a role he never wanted, never chose; so Malfoy had always been told there was something special about him. His family, his status, his blood. Harry was the Boy Who Lived, Malfoy was the Boy Who Would Save His Father's Legacy. The boy who would fight back. The boy who was trained by his psychotic aunt Bellatrix in Legilimency and who was ordered to kill a nearly century-old wizard by any means necessary or otherwise bear witness to the deaths of his family.

Pampered to the point he believed that he could do anything, and thrust into the arena of Doing Anything without someone, anyone to keep him safe, to offer a way out. Whereas Harry only ever had himself, until he was thrust into the fight and had help. From Remus, from Sirius, the Order, Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore...not to mention his friends, all of his friends. 

Harry never expected help, not after growing up abused by the Dursleys, and still remains bamboozled when he receives it. Malfoy was certain that he not only would get help but that he deserved to receive it, yet when he did what he was told he should, what he'd been taught, and went so far down the wrong, dark path as a result, he never received help. Not what he expected based on what he thought he deserved. So of course he does not deserve any of this. Of course not. 

And how can precious, saint Potter possibly understand?

But Harry does understand one thing. No one should have needed to die for him, or because of him; to fight him or protect him. He never wanted, never felt that he deserved any of it. No one should die now.

So "No, Malfoy," Harry responds softly. "Letting... If I let you die, I'd lose part of myself. It would've, it would be awful." Biting his lower lip as he looks into the other's eyes, Harry adds "And for the record, I'm sorry. For...well, a lot of things." His green eyes spark then, like emeralds as he adds "but I'm not sorry for saving you." 

Malfoy gapes at him then, arms slackening in shock and Harry turns to hear footfalls and see Narcissa Malfoy at the door, being ushered through it by Madam Pomfrey. 

"I'll leave you alone," Harry nods jerkily to Malfoy's mum and heads off down the hallway as quickly as he can to stop the ache in his heart and the tears that threaten as Malfoy gasps out the single word that divides, that differentiates them irrevocably. Draco has his, whilst Harry's is gone, forever. Life is not fair.

_"Mum?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Malfoy - especially Malfoy - have some issues
> 
> The "being groomed to fight Voldemort" aspect I indicate of Harry's life is something I found really problematic with particularly the way Dumbledore put so much on him. Harry wanted to do the right thing, of course, and listen to the figures of authority, those who 'knew best' in his life, but he really didn't have a lot of agency in his battle against Voldemort for a long time, I don't think. 
> 
> Malfoy didn't have full agency either, in that I really highly doubt anyone explained exactly every awful thing Death Eaters did/do. This does NOT excuse him from what he did when he became a death eater, or all of the bullying and horrible things he did/said before. I do think, however, that there is something to be said about he and Harry being sort of inversions of each other. Two sides of the same coin, if you will
> 
> The aspects of "similarity" between the pair of them are IN HARRY'S MIND. I am not suggesting that either is wholly good/wholly bad, nor am I excusing any wrongdoings. Both have issues and I am parsing out some of the -often horrible- aspects of their lives above. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask.
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	15. All the Time You Know She's Smilin'

Harry is rushing headlong, not certain where he intends to go.

His ears feel as though they are full of cotton, or of water, and he's holding out one hand and trailing it along the stone wall as he hauls arse away from the hospital wing, even as he isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to where his feet are taking him, not really - That is, not until he hears a rhythmic thumping that arrests him in place.

Music. 

He is not incredibly well-versed in non-magical music, or wizarding music either if he's being perfectly honest, but something of the melodic progression of.the song he is currently hearing emanating from downstairs at the end of the hall where he now walks sounds familiar. Strikes a chord, so to speak. 

_... This is your life, don't play hard to get - it's a free world, all you have to do is fall in love, play the game! Everybody play the game of looooove_

Harry realises he is in the walkway that leads to quidditch locker rooms as well as the showers, and so the music he is hearing likely stems from quidditch workouts. His feet have taken him of their own accord down the stairs now, to the doors of the locker room. The echoes of this song let him know it emanates from the showers -

_Just play the game, play the game, play the game...._

After a bit more of the song, a bridge with the distinct sounds of guitar and drums playing, the water shuts off, there is scuffling and silence. Then the door swings open and Harry is confronted with the sight of Ginny in jeans, dark red shirt, and robes, hair still wet from the showers as she tips her head down, tresses swinging as she stuffs a little muggle ...boom box? More likely a speaker, he would guess, though his eyes aren't focused on that, into her bag. Her broom is slung over her shoulder as she hangs her arm round, its length resting in the crook of her elbow. She still wears one glove. Holds the other in her mouth, clenched between her teeth, as obviously she'd kept the one on to avoid splinters in her palm (not common at all, but they do happen). Harry has never felt more in love with her than he does at this moment, and he is more certain than ever that he has fouled everything up irrevocably at the same time. All he wants to do is grab her and hold her and apologise profusely, or quite possibly cry, as his eyes have started itching the way they do preceding tears. Even as he'd originally swallowed his tears after exiting the hospital wing.

 _TALK to her,_ Fred had told him; ghostly Fred had a very good point, and Harry feels as though he's currently crumbling, falling to pieces yet again, so he needs to say something to somebody. He really wants it to be her.

"Ginny," Harry starts, and her head jerks up as she drops her glove out of her mouth, catching it smoothly and stuffing it into her bag. 

She stands there facing him, tough and beautiful with her eyes narrowed and hair drying, a trifle mussed. From pulling on her shirt, probably, the cut of it accentuating her strong shoulders, trim waist, and the muscles tensing in her arms as she cocks her brow and asks him flatly

"What d'you want, Harry?"

He knows it's stupid, and cliche, and he very well could get himself punched (or more likely hexed) for saying it, but "You, Ginevra Weasley," his voice wobbles, almost breaks. And then as her nostrils are flaring and he knows he hasn't got anything to lose, Harry continues in a rush: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Gin. I should've been talking to you every day, all this summer and up to now because I miss us, I miss you, and everything else in the world might be absolutely bloody bonkers but you're steady on, you've always been steady on, and I got told I want someone dead and I know that I'm a git and a coward and a tosser, but I love you, Gin, and I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" She asks, and as Harry's heart pounds in his ears as colours leech away a little and he tries desperately to catalogue the litany of things he is sorry for, Ginny shakes her head at him in apparent exasperation and sighs, grabbing his wrist and pulling him across half of the hallway into an empty classroom. She locks the door behind them. He prepares himself for a punch, or a hex, and wonders if he ought to close his eyes to take it when there is a duo of thumps as Ginny drops her broom and her bag onto the floor. "Harry James Potter, you are absolutely ridiculous," she snaps, and then her hands are on his face, fingers threading through, clenching in his hair as she presses her lips to his in a kiss that is soft yet strong. 

Her teeth nibble on his lower lip as she curls one hand around the back of his neck, and Harry gasps, freezing even as his heartbeat jumps. Eventually he begins to kiss Ginny in return, his arms wrapping carefully and tightly around her middle as she presses herself against him and pushes his back into the wall. He stumbles, or would, but feels the bracing wall behind and the warmth and strength of her body before as her hips press and roll into his. 

The roaring dragon-esque monster is back inside Harry, but this time all it is doing is making him feel warm as he buries his fingers in Ginny's fiery damp hair, running them through the tresses all the way up to her scalp, and she makes a sound of pleasure. "I'm here," he tells her, lips withdrawing from hers to whisper, to promise before he presses them to her cheek and then the soft indentation just beneath her ear, tongue flickering along that spot before he sucks the flesh of her lobe into his mouth, pressing on it once with his teeth. "'M not going anywhere." He isn't going to leave her, emotionally or physically, ever again. Not if he can help it, and he can. He promises himself that as she tips her head back for him to gain better access as she gasps. He will stay, and talk. He's got to talk, to be present, to be with her. He needs her. 

Ginny shivers, tingles with feeling as she straddles Harry where he stands as he holds her. Their bodies move together until her muscles tremble and release just before his do. Harry buries his face into her hair as both of their hearts slow down. She hangs on to him, feeling him shuddering.

"Well," she of the colossal understatement breathes, planting her feet and shaking her head as she holds onto Harry's lower back with one hand "That was a bit of alright." 

Harry is shaking with laughter now after a second of silence. Oh how he has missed this. Missed her. Everything that has been happening crashes into him, and the shakes and sounds he makes are not of mirth anymore, but he feels steadier somehow, even so. 

Ginny cocks her head and moves back a bit, still running her hand up and down his back. "Hey," she ducks her face to find his, as Harry has closed his eyes, dropping his chin as his shoulders shake with what are morphing from chuckles into sobs. "Harry, I'm here. It's okay, you're okay. And I forgive you for being a giant git, does that help?"

Harry wants to say yes, because it does, really; but with everything in his head going in so many directions, with what had almost happened to Malfoy, with the teaching he is doing, no time to himself, it all comes crashing in at once, it seems. Harry hates himself for doing this, for blubbering all over her, and tries to speak, to apologise yet again, but Ginny hushes him. 

"Stop that, you're allowed to cry if you need. Trust me, I've seen a lot worse. I grew up with Percy." 

She sinks to the floor of the classroom with Harry now, gathering him to her. In a very different manner than she had before, but with just as much strength and certainty as she had used to thrust her body against him and press her lips to his. "Just let it out," she advises, rubbing circles on Harry's upper back with the heel of her hand and moving her fingers in a scratching motion back and forth. "And once you feel a bit better we can go for a walk round the grounds, for old time's sake."

God, he loves her so much. Harry recalls their first kiss and its aftermath so vividly, and how Ginny is so strong, has always been strong. Yet she knows how to be vulnerable as well, and is telling him that he is allowed to be. He is safe to cry with her, and if she ever needed to, she would be safe with him. He knows they have a lot to talk about, no matter the manner in which they got together just now, but this is a start. 

Eventually Harry sniffs and tries to suck back the last of his tears, lifting his face and letting Ginny wipe his cheeks. With a shake of her head she uses the soft sleeve of her robes to do that and then to clean his glasses. 

She unbends her legs and stands, holding down her hand for Harry to take, which he does. Along with her bag which he slings over his shoulder as she picks up her broom again.

After Ginny helps him to his feet and they exit the classroom (unlocked once more) to strike out across the grounds, hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, she looks Harry in the eyes, blazing expression in full force, and says quietly, simply: "Talk to me." 

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Queen song 'Play the Game' (referenced by use of some lyrics here) is reminiscent to me of Ginny Weasley, in her brilliance at quidditch and all around. 
> 
> These two have a lot to talk about, and they aren't officially back together without any issues by any means, but they're working on it. (And they're still teenagers, technically, so I think a heavy make out session plus what else happened between them in that classroom was in order) ;P
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	16. You'll Be On Your Knees Tomorrow

The sky is a high pale blue like a robin's egg, with wind that starts to blow chilly, but gently. 

Or that is how it blows at first, before the speed increases until it is cold enough outdoors to numb fingers and noses and cheeks and toes. Harry shoves the hand not holding Ginny's into one of his pockets and looks at Ginny, noting her still-slightly damp hair. He takes out his wand a moment and mumbles a warming spell to help her cease to shiver, as her shoulders have begun jerking a bit from cold. Yet she tucks her chin down and tries not to be bothered.

At least the sun shines over the rustling grass and bright leaves of the Dark Forest, gold and red and orange and yellow. They swirl in the winds, matching the hues of Ginny's hair as Harry strides next to, still holding onto her. He's grateful today is Friday, and he hasn't got to teach DADA. After staying all night with Malfoy, his limbs are dragging in exhaustion, and the cold does not help, though the air is keeping him awake.

That, along with speaking to Ginny, telling her what is going on as best he can. 

He thinks how it's...lucky is not the proper word, but it might be beneficial for Malfoy to be able to spend a few days in the hospital wing, over the weekend, before the necessity of returning to classes. Irritability causes Harry to shift his shoulders. He doesn't know why he cares - or rather, he knows yet wishes he didn't - yet he'd told Malfoy about it, and now explains to the best of his ability (as succinctly as he can; surely she doesn't want to know how often bloody memories surface before his eyes), telling her about his conflicted feelings. Ginny sighs.

"Wow, Harry. You can talk out your feelings of being guilty and conflicted about a git who you've hated since you started school AND who became a bloody _Death Eater_ two years ago, yet you can't even talk to - your friends, your family about losing their son and brother...," Her breath heaves in a heavy snort, almost a huff as she shakes her head. "If that isn't too rich to swallow."

"Whoah, hang on -" Harry's eyes widen even as his heart thuds heavily. Did she just - had Ginny said her family is his family? He's always considered them the closest thing he's got, but if they do too...oh, he didn't know!

"No, Harry, I won't hang on. You, you're standing here in all your tormented guilt with your tortured soul -"

"Because Fred shouldn't've had to die!" Shouts Harry.

"You're right," Ginny spins to face him, fingertips jabbing into his chest as her broom whisks before his face, brushing against his hair. She still hangs on to it, and he tenses, sure she is going to take hold of the handle and use it to thump him, but Ginny hangs onto his hand and prods him. She is gripping him tight as she continues speaking. "He shouldn't. There's a whole LIST of people who didn't deserve, shouldn't've had to die, like Colin and Professor Lupin and Tonks, you told me about your house elf friend... So many, so if you're going to have a guilty hero complex about them all, you'd better get on with it."

Harry flinches, staring at her as if she's belted him with the words. His fingers are trembling. "You... d'you think I ought to feel guilty about them all, even _more...?_ " 

Ginny rolls her eyes in exasperation. "God, you're thick. I'm SAYING if you're going to be ridiculous enough to take responsibility for what happened to Fred, when it was his choice and his alone to fight, then I might as well get about five metres of parchment to write everybody's name down who was hurt or killed fighting against Voldemort so you can put all that guilt on yourself too. They made their choices, Harry. We all did too, and yeah those choices were pretty shite and not everyone got a good one, and yes I'd very much like to kick my brother's arse for focusing on a joke Percy told rather than on the Death Eater who was hexing him, but." Her voice breaks a bit, but she's facing Harry with her eyes up and her jaw set, hand still holding onto his. Ginny squeezes as she says to him "...But I'm not taking away Fred's agency, his choice by saying, by believing that his death was on you or anybody else but the arsehole that actually killed him."

Her features are pale now as they stop near the lake, and she looks out across it as they stand, facial features tense, sorrowful but not resigned or defeated. She swipes underneath her nose with one sleeve, blinking hard and trying to smile. "I don't wanna call it dignified, he'd hate that," she glances again at Harry "But Fred died with dignity, Harry. Forgave Percy first out of all the rest of us, and didn't live his last moments bound up in regret." Ginny's expression softens now as she knocks Harry's shoulder with hers. "...And you know he wouldn't want you to keep on beating yourself up over him, right?"

Right. A slight smile flickers across Harry's face. "Yeah, I do, actually," he says slowly. "He'd - he told me, he would tell me that I need to laugh every once in awhile." 

Ginny nods at him stolidly in a fashion that Brooks no argument. "There you are then. That he would." And then registering the fact Harry admitted that Fred had, in fact, said such words to him, her warm dark eyes catch Harry's green ones and "Are you having ...nightmares, again?" she asks him.

Harry grows cold, though not from the air itself at this point. Indecision tears at his insides. Fred had told him to talk to Ginny, and give a message to George, but he doesn't know whether or not that includes confiding that Harry had seen him. It's a tricky business, mentioning a ghost - besides, poltergeists are different in they can make themselves seen or not, and wouldn't it be just Harry's luck to tell Ginny and the other Weasleys about Fred and then for him not to show himself to them, for whatever reason? He shuffles his feet and pushes a hand through his hair as yeah, he ought to let Fred figure out what he wants to do about his family seeing him, himself. 

But "Yes, I erm. I've had some dreams," Harry says, because it's true. Whether or not he sleeps enough for the dreams to become fully-fledged nightmares is another matter altogether, and as they've just started talking and being together today, he does not want to admit to her how little he has slept in the past two months. 

But she knows, or can tell how dark the circles are underneath Harry's eyes, at least. Ginny Weasley has sharp eyes and she isn't stupid. She also sees how close they are to Hagrid's hut, and knowing about his consistent invitations to tea for Harry, Ron, and Hermione over the years, she does not waste time in turning their course towards his door and tapping smartly with the knocker, hair brightly flaming, a ripple behind her as she accepts none of Harry's protestations, instead smartly speaking to Hagrid about his state when the door is opened and he comes out of it with crinkled features and extended hands, calling Ginny's name and giving Harry a bracing hug. 

And Harry, shaking hard, trying not to cry again, allows himself to sink into Hagrid as his enormous presence, the smell of his jacket, warmth of his front, the tang of flesh-eating slug repellent that he'd likely just poured around on the cabbages; bristly but soft beard that tickles Harry's face and the feeling as if he'd cracked a few ribs from Hagrid's hug morphs into a booming "Come in, lemme put on tea for yeh," and an offer of his rock cakes, all making Harry's heart feel full to bursting. 

Fang snuffles and slobbers over, his head dropping onto Harry's knee as he settles into Hagrid's overstuffed armchair, and his awareness is a trifle fuzzy as he sees Ginny move about the hut like she's at home. Hagrid asks her questions about quidditch, and Harry registers in a haze of tiredness that she must have been coming to visit him since school started. Harry hasn't, and he feels a sharp ache inside as he thinks that, his tongue feels heavy as does his head, which he lifts a bit to say to Hagrid, something; that he's sorry for neglecting his visiting, or that he's so grateful for Hagrid caring for him, always being here; he smells the soothing mint dropped into chamomile tea, but Hagrid stumps over with his hands big as bin lids wrapping round Harry's hands, gently rumbling "There y' are, Harry, that's alright," before pushing back untidy black hair and telling Ginny to grab a pillow as he spreads out a quilt.

And Harry does not register his fingers' slackening grip on the teacup; nor does he recall setting down Ginny's bag, but he is stretched out in Hagrid's easy chair with a pillow and a blanket, the latter having been tucked tenderly around him by enormous gentle hands, and Ginny sits nearby scratching Fang's back and chatting softly to Hagrid about his ideas, "Gonna be findin' new and improved ways to bring interestin' creatures onto Hogwarts grounds. Professor McGonagall's bein right patient with me," he says, and Ginny smiles, her eyes resting briefly on the thin face of the boy now slumbering beside her, his hand flopping to land on her shoulder.

"I'm sure she's going to be chuffed about whatever new creatures you decide to show us, Hagrid." Ginny's eyes are bright as she focuses on him, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, a caretaker with a heart of gold who truly deserves his name. "I know I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bickering ensues - or rather, Ginny sets some things straight
> 
> Along with that, this chapter shows my appreciation for Hagrid. I love him so very much. He's the most wonderful of characters, a real parental figure for Harry with a heart of solid gold <3


	17. Go Back (Jack) Do It Again

_... The darkness of the forest expands around him, rising in tendrils, enveloping his body. All around is quiet, save for the crackling of heavy boots on underbrush and whimpers and sudden screeches of shouting, of celebration; he feels gentle strength holding him, moving him, and low agonised sounds tear through his motionless body... Sounds he hates hearing now as he did then; if he could go back and redo anything, it would be to spare Hagrid, forced to carry his body; the heartache that caused, wishes he could spare Professor McGonagall, his friends, and -_

Harry knows that this is a dream he is experiencing, due to the manner of it; but its integral horror freezes him, sapping him of strength, and the sharp ache of loneliness spears him in a fashion that is all-too-real. He gasps, and thrashes, and -

Then he feels a sense of warmth, of strength. A flowery scent is in his nose, the one that tells him _Ginny_ and he feels muscular arms wrapping round his chest.

Harry slowly relaxes as his thrashings cease.

He wakes with a slow hauling in of air and finds himself in Hagrid's chair no longer, but is lying instead upon the gatekeeper's enormous bed, blankets tossed and puddled round, and he still feels strong arms around him. "Ginny," Harry whispers as he shifts himself to feel softness against his back, and turns as Ginny's face shifts away a bit, her dark eyes blinking as he apologises "Sorry, just - what've we -" his voice trails off to find a query that is safer, and his mind comes up with "Erm, where's Hagrid, Gin?" So smooth, well done.

Ginny stretches and keeps one arm around his back, unlinking the other to push hair out of her face. "Well, seeing how knackered you were, he carried you to bed so you'd be more comfortable, like. Sent word to McGonagall that you're here so she doesn't worry about her prodigal professor," her lips twitch up as he rolls his eyes "...and Hagrid left to teach class a little while ago."

Harry scrubs his right hand across his face, from forehead down over his eyes and then along each of his cheeks, trying not to groan. He feels rather than sees Ginny sit upright and then her hands are kneading the knotted muscles of his neck and upper back, fingertips putting pressure on the tightest parts.

His robes and her bag are hanging off the side of Hagrid's overstuffed chair, along with his jumper so the only thing between Harry's skin and Ginny's hands is his shirt, which is thinner than a sheet of parchment. Her robes are off as well, leaving them both in mostly muggle attire, save for his Hogwarts tie. Harry turns his head and his eyes travel over Ginny's face as she focuses on running her hands across him, fingers and palms moving now in circles and stripes and swirls up and down his back.

"You ought go see Pomfrey," her breath tickles his ear as her fingers trace up the nape of his neck before sinking into his hair. Harry closes his eyes, expelling a slight pleased groan. That feels fantastical. "...she can give you something to help with dreams."

Harry sucks in a breath as his eyes shoot open again. Oh. He scrambles to think of something to say. It's not that he doesn't want to talk about his dreams with her, or go to see the matron, as Ginny suggested, but. He can't. He feels like he ought to get through this on his own, he should be able to. So many people have things worse, right? He knows that; it's in the faces of the Weasley family, in the bandage on Malfoy's arm. It's in the slumped frames of certain younger students, how frightened they get when things go wrong in class, jumping and yelping and dodging under a desk.

But it's got to help someone, surely, being granted assistance with troubles such as those.

"Does talking with her help you, Ginny?" Harry winces as her eyes narrow and her hand freezes, tightening on his hair until it almost hurts. "What I, I mean, after that stupid stuff that Smith said to you in class the once, I - well I was worried. I talked to Professor McGonagall, and -"

"And you know that I went to see Pomfrey because you sent me."

"Yes," he gulps "and I heard that you went back again, erm. I'm sorry, I just -"

"You were worried," she says flatly. "Yes, you said." Lowering her hands and shifting her body a bit, Ginny seems to decide something as she turns to sit and face Harry. Her eyes dart around for a moment before catching and holding his. "Yeah, it helps. I think it might even be a good thing for Healers to learn some therapeutic techniques that muggles use. Madam Pomfrey says she knows some of those." Her expression grows thoughtful. "I wonder if some of the strategies she's used with me would help you, Harry."

"Like they've done you?" Even as he phrases it as a question, he isn't asking a question, not really.

Ginny cocks a satirical eyebrow. "What gives you the idea they've helped me so much, eh?"

He takes her hands and runs his thumbs across them softly, not quite looking at her. "I dunno, the fact that you forgave me for being such a gigantic git so easily."

Ginny snorts. "Oh come on, Harry, I'm an even-keeled and completely reasonable person, that's why I forgave you."

It is Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows at her. "Uh huh."

She lets out an indignant sound and shoves him. "Ooh you are cruisin' for a bruisin', Harry James!"

"I really regret that I told you my middle name."

"Why, because now I can bewitch you?"

"...You already do that. No, 'cos I don't even know your middle name! I mean Ginevra sounds amazing all the time,"

"Just as I am," Ginny teases, but as Harry gets out of Hagrid's bed and pulls his jumper and robes back on, his tone of voice is completely serious in response.

"Yes, just like you."

The sweet sincerity in his eyes almost undoes her, and she works especially hard to keep her face neutral; they've got to head back to the castle at some point, and she really doubts that Hagrid would be alright with his hut being used for ... certain activities. So Ginny sighs and shrugs into her robes. "I'm flattered," she says.

"I hope so because that's the only compliment I've currently got."

Ginny chuckles fondly and pushes Harry's hair off his face as she scoops up her broomstick with her free hand. "I'll be waiting to hear more of them whenever you come up. We've got time."

The manner in which she says that, sparing a glance at him before opening the door and leading the way out "Bye Fang," Harry says to the dog who'd been sleeping in the corner until the door opened - not only does it tell Harry that she's going to stick around, but yes, in the current state of the world, no longer under the threat of Voldemort, they DO have time for things like that.

They have nothing but time.

***

It is several days, including after the weekend comes and goes with lovely moments between himself and Ginny that Harry has to pinch himself to believe are happening, before he sees Malfoy out and about again.

He had been in the hospital wing fully about half of that time, according to the little Harry was able to glean from McGonagall - he cannot pretend he is not concerned, albeit for very different reasons from those occuring the last time he had paid Draco Malfoy such consistently close attention. He would not tell anyone about this, not the way he had done Sixth Year, especially; but this time other people have come to realise Harry's focus of their own accord. 

Even though Hermione has begun sitting and talking cats with Millicent, and Ron has broken down and actively started a Wizards Chess tournament against Blaise. ("He's really bloody good," Ron speaks in a tone that, were it about anybody else, could be construed as awe. "Sorry, Harry.")

It's fine, though, Harry reassures his best mate. Really it is; he's felt badly that with his teaching duties and grading, focus on homework and on Ginny again, though the last is so recent as to not have been something he's talked of; and really, what can he say? _'Hey Ron, I've been getting off with your sister again'?_ Suffice it, he hopes that Ron will either notice or be informed by someone else, and that he won't be inordinately peeved at Ginny OR Harry as a result. Though Ginny can definitely take him on, and win, Harry does not fancy a reoccurrence of any of the multiple times that he and his best mate hadn't talked, starting Second Year. Anyhow, he's short on rest and on time to kill, he supposes; recalls the last extended period akin to this as Fourth Year during the Triwizard Tournament, again a time that Ron hadn't been speaking to him....

He shakes himself out of those memories, regretful and furious that his mind chooses to chuck them at him when he has so many positives to look back on - and finds himself watching Malfoy across the Great Hall, where he sits and stares at his plate of dinner. His face is obscured because his back is to Harry, but he'd guess that Malfoy is perturbed; he seems to be working his hand and attempting to stretch out his arm to get utensils and cut a bit of... fish? Harry thinks. He isn't sure. What he can tell is that whatever movement he's making is causing Malfoy's shoulders to tense in a manner indicative of pain, and Pansy is sitting a bit down the bench with Nott and Goyle, and she in particular is _laughing_ at him -

"...Harry?" 

He finds himself looking down at Ron, not registering that he's standing, but "Fine, it's fine," Harry repeats as his feet move, seemingly of their own accord, around the Gryffindor table and towards Malfoy. Hermione purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, turning to Millicent Bulstrode.

"Well, that was fast," the larger girl grumbles.

"That's Harry, quick on his feet, though not always on the uptake," Hermione smiles fondly. She puts out her hand. "But anyway, I think you owe me two galleons, Mills."

"Hold the phone," Millicent protests, a little bit of muggle slang she's picked up from Hermione (but one really oughtn't comment upon it or risk losing their head) "He actually answered Weasley before going, so who's won is -"

"- Me," interjects Blaise Zabini smoothly, elegantly flipping out his palm without raising his head, as though supremely uninterested. "I said that he'd repeat himself before striding around and provoking a scene,"

"... Meanwhile staring at Malfoy as he said it. Merlin's beard!" Hermione snaps in frustration as she and Millicent hand over their galleons.

"How can you possibly guess that, Blaise?"

Pocketing the gold, Zabini only now lifts his head, raising a thin brow, his dark eyes and rich tone of voice equally imbued with exasperation: "Because," he sniffs as Harry and Malfoy begin to have a shouting match across the Hall "There is not a single pair of more overly-dramatic idiots in their confrontation style than Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter." He stands smoothly as the shouts continue, something about Harry asking how long Malfoy's mother was here, and Malfoy snarling _"don't talk about my mother, Potter!"_

With a heavy sigh, Blaise suggests relocating to the library in order to do actual work, which in his and Ron's case also includes completing their five-game chess tournament.

"Got your board, Weasel?" The name is almost a term of endearment now, or at least it doesn't make Ron fume as before. Life is too short. Besides, he can always whip Zabini's pretentious arse in chess.

"Don't I always?"

"D'you have any of your books, Ron?" Hermione asked, scandalised, even as she rolls her eyes because she knows the answer.

The group rises to leave in the midst of Harry bawling out "Well excuse me for being the tiniest bit concerned about your well-being, Draco, after you nearly cURSED YOUR BLOODY ARM OFF in front of me!"

There is silence from those remaining in the Great Hall at that remark; Millicent lets out a low whistle as Harry, seemingly seething, grabs his wand from the sleeve of his robes and makes a slicing motion as he brushes past Malfoy and leaves. Draco jerks, and people watching might see the automatic twitch of his hands, one pressing itself (as if involuntarily) to his chest. He looks around and shouts something like "That's it, you'd better leave, Potter! Go on and teach your rubbish class!" But the jibe is half-hearted, at best. 

Especially when the blond turns back to his plate, shaking a bit in fury and surprise - _Had Potter really just called him Draco? As if they were friends, preposterous!_ to see that his fish has been neatly sliced into manageable bites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's having dark dreams, Malfoy is lashing out, and people have started a betting pool on how the pair of them are going to interact with one another. There will be some more references to therapy &c as well; Ginny isn't going to give up on talking to Harry about what he is/they both are going through
> 
> Malfoy will potentially talk more as well, we shall see...


	18. Now You Swear and Kick and Beg Us...

That night at supper, Harry does his best to eat an entire mound of food, which gets him a smile from Ginny. He makes his way up to the bedroom alone instead of remaining in the Common Room as per usual after supper, though. 

Does not plan to go to sleep immediately, as he's gotten an idea for DADA - to teach next week, if he can manage it - and so sits with his knees drawn up, heavy velvet hangings on his four-poster bed hiding his body from sight. The heavy heft of the Defense Primer rests on his lap as he reads over wand drills, scratching down plans for a week long assignment for his classes....

Harry whispers _"Nox,"_ to de-illuminate his wand as he hears footsteps tramping upstairs some time later. He feels silly, a bit childish for it, but he doesn't want to be seen or talked to by anyone; in fact he slides down and covers his head with the blanket on his bed after delighting his wand, holding his textbook flat as he hears an irascible familiar tone grumbling. 

"But _why_ would he call me by my first name? Precious Potter hasn't done that in seven years, not since he -"

"...Are we honestly still talking about this?" Blaise Zabini speaks in a withering tone of voice. "Since you offered him your friendship and he refused it first day of first year, you mean? You've talked shite and he's talked shite right back. Yet you've definitely gotten over the slight, haven't you, Draco?" Zabini speaks coolly with an edge of what sounds like amusement in his tone. Harry can easily imagine him leaning into one of the bedposts with a sigh, and he hears Malfoy grunt and fling himself with a bouncing springing sound across his bed.

"I never should've told you about that," Malfoy now pouted. His voice is muffled as he grumbles - into his pillow, Harry expects. 

Blaise sighs. "I know this is going to be incredibly difficult for you to get into your greased platinum head, but do you think that just maybe Harry Potter considers you...not to be an enemy any longer, but -" 

"Piss off," Draco hisses. "Don't you bloody say it, Blaise!"

"What?" The other man sounds truly exasperated, when before to Harry's ears he had seemed almost bored. "Couldn't he see that you're different than you were? I can see it, so can everyone else...," 

"And not one of them will even look at me," Draco mumbles. Harry can tell he means the other Slytherins, the ones who had always been his friends. There is a sound of cloth sliding against itself, weight shifts, and Harry hears a question put almost plaintively "Except you. I know that you weren't -" the sound of Malfoy's voice changes to his typical snide tone as he asks "Why are you still around, Blaise? Surely my - activities - caused problems for some of your relatives and friends, as I have caused hell for everyone I know, it seems...," He expels a chuckle that sounds devoid of mirth, and not only does the snide tone seem like it's masking emotions to Harry, he figures that he really ought to stop listening, but can't. "Why do you still bother speaking to me? Does the disastrous turn my life has taken amuse you?"

"...Yes," Blaise replies after a silence. "The fall from grace of the Malfoy heir amuses me very much. Mate, you didn't just fall, you plummeted, were practically _thrown._ " there is more movement, and Harry carefully lowers the edge of his hanging that allows him to stay in the dark yet also to see what goes on. He watches Malfoy's white-blond head drop, sees his features twisting as he blinks and looks down, hands curling into fists. As if that was the answer he had expected from Blaise, of course. But the lean Slytherin strides from where he had leaned against Malfoy's bedpost. "No, you fool," Zabini hisses, kneeling so that his face is level with Draco's face. "You had so much ambition from the beginning. I always was up to hear every scheme you created." His head bows a bit as he claps Malfoy on the shoulder before continuing "...And then you lost them, all of your visions and ideas were sucked into the immense lack of imagination that was the ravings of a lunatic half-blood megalomaniac. Who had _nothing_ of the status or the wealth or the prestige inherent in your family, yet somehow he cozened not simply one, but TWO generations of schemers." 

Blaise shakes his head in furious disappointment. "I watched and I waited. I knew you weren't truly what this thing reduced you to -" he grabs ahold of Draco, pressing his thumb against the bandage over his Dark Mark. Draco yelps in agony and shock, but the other does not let go. "And I waited for you to realise your power and ambition and schemes were not limited to carrying out someone else's rage. You have your own ideas, your own wild imaginings." With a shake of the pale arm as if it is devoid of bones, not all that different from the way Lockhart had shaken Harry's arm Second Year at first glance, "THAT Draco Malfoy is my friend. That's the one I stuck round here to find once he returned. And you did." Blaise sniffs. "You're still a flash posh bastard with too much broodiness for your own bloody good, but you're here." His head whips back and forth as he leans closer and says to Draco "if anyone asks about this I said nothing."

A hiccough, almost a laugh and at the same time sounding akin to a sob exits Malfoy's throat. He blinks rapidly. "'Course not," he whispers. Something in his eyes is shell-shocked, stymied. As if he cannot believe anything Blaise just said to him. Harry does not believe it either, but as he thinks a bit, he registers a bit of what Zabini was getting at. Malfoy certainly was imaginative in the manners of insult he utilised, from snide words to shouts to even song. Harry's stomach twists sickly as he thinks on those things being admirable to someone, and then he figures there must have been others; something else that Malfoy aspired to, something that caught his imagination. Something Blaise enjoyed, or even shared. He hears croaking sounds and spies the taller fellow sit down and hold his arm out, appearing wholly disinterested as Malfoy shudders and rests himself against the offered side after a moment.

"Why didn't - you, I didn't know. It's astounding...how wonderful I truly am," Draco hauls in a shuddering breath as he tries for some of his typical bravado, but his jaw jumps and his eyes are shiny as he chokes out "Blaise, I didn't know."

"Well," still acting as though it is entirely accidental that Malfoy has leaned into him and his arm now wraps around the slighter fellow's back, rubbing up and down soothingly "now you do know. Why d'you think I rode with those useless sots on the train this year? We've got to know all the insufferable shite that rubes say about us, don't we?"

Malfoy's eyes rise and light up a little as he registers what Zabini is saying. "You were spying on them to hear what they think of me!" He appears awed at the idea of someone doing that for him, and Harry's chest clenches again as he thinks about how easy that would be for him and Hermione and Ron, with no talking of it needed. All three of them know they are looking out for each other. But Malfoy didn't know, and didn't think he had anyone looking out for him. That is what he meant about Snape, Harry realises. 

Even as Blaise snorts and replies to him "Don't flatter yourself, I needed to know what they think of _me._ " But the look flashing in his eyes briefly is one of satisfaction, perhaps because of his words, the effect they've had on Draco, and there is a warmth seeming to manifest, of - dare Harry think fondness? For the other.

And it actually warms Harry's heart, a bit, to know that there is someone, besides his mum, that legitimately cares about Draco Malfoy's well-being. Sees him as something other, or more than a smarmy bigoted Death Eater git.

He's got his own parcel of issues, as Harry also has. Which somehow causes Harry to feel a modicum of legitimate concern for him. It's good Blaise is watching out as well, then. Harry sinks into bed, drowsiness having overtaken him even as he listened to the pair talk. Someone Malfoy'll allow to help. Hopefully.

Because if there is hope and help for someone who has done what Malfoy has, surely there must be hope for Harry too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry has some interesting thought processes, that's for sure.
> 
> I wanted to come up with something that made Blaise like Malfoy that includes better connotations of the traits typically lauded as Slytherin. From what I recall from the books, as he was only referenced in the final two, Blaise had some really unkind things to say (calling Ginny Weasley a "filthy little blood traitor" for one, rough) but I somehow cannot see him deigning to follow Voldemort. He seems too...proud for that. From the few scenes where he is shown, starting sixth book, I also think he would want more for Draco than being a follower of someone like the dark lord


	19. That You're Not a Gambling Man

Some help, of a fashion, actually comes to Harry in an unexpected form. Bringing a strange sort of hope along as well.

It's morning in the Great Hall, and Harry has trained himself not to look up at the swooping owls as they enter, as the sight causes a clenching in his chest, stabbing more sharply every time he catches sight of pale wings, and the way first year faces light up to receive their first letters. Hermione still gets the _Prophet_ every day - "Force of habit," she says when asked - and Ron gets letters, sometimes several a week, from his mum. Ginny has done too, and the expressions on their faces upon reading the contents are enough to make Harry's stomach drop with guilt again. Ron shoves the pages away and doesn't say much about them, but Harry's watched Ginny bend to write a reply to her mum, lips working as she scribbles fast enough to blot her fingers with ink from her quill.

Harry hasn't gotten any letters, and does not expect them; thus he is incredibly slow to respond when he receives a visit not from one, but TWO owls.

First he recognises as the owl he had helped his cousin purchase at Eylops, and it's abundantly clear that the letter is from him as the name and address scrawled upon the envelope is _'Harry Potter, Magic School'_. It's even got a stamp.

"Who's your letter from, Harry?" Inquires Hermione. She had put her head together with Ginny for a moment as the youngest Weasley had walked into the hall with Harry that morning, first time the entire year so far, and Ron is currently shooting a few sideways looks at Harry as he responds.

"Erm, I think it could be from - my cousin -"

There are scrapes and screeches from utensils as he says that. Sidelong looks become direct ones, and "Bloody hell, what's he writing to you for?! If your aunt and uncle are behind this, blithering sods -"

"I dunno, but I doubt it, Ron." Harry shrugs as he opens the letter, not entirely clear on how to explain. "... Dudley's changed. We - well, here, I'll read it out so you can understand.

 _'Dear Harry,  
I know I said I'd write you, but likely you thought I was taking the piss, eh?'_"

"There you are, Ron, see?" Hermione whispers. Her eyes shine a little, she seems really pleased to hear this from Harry's cousin. 

Ron scoffs before Harry can get the chance to parse that out further. "He could still be taking it, far as I'm concerned."

Harry lowers his head as Ginny speaks up. "Well that's great, Ron. I suppose you'd be the authority on people acting like obnoxious gits over something they don't know shite about, though."

"Oi, Harry's told me stuff!" the gangly redhead leans sharply around his best mate to snap at his younger sister. "AND I saw how they treated him, for your information - put bars on his window -"

"Yes, his aunt and _uncle_ did that - "

"Come off it, cousin was an enormous prat too! Emphasis on enormous."

Hermione gasps. "Ron!"

"What, Hermione? I'm not lying!"

"He isn't," Harry says. "Dudley was a real prat for a really long time. But, he's apologised to me, a couple times, actually. And - I dunno how precisely, but he's changed. I can't explain it."

"I can, it's called growing up," Ginny supplies promptly. "You should take some notes on that, Ron."

As Ron turns bright red and begins sputtering, "Alright, we know about Ronald's emotional range," Hermione curls a gentle hand around his and squeezes. "Go on, Harry. What else has your cousin got to say?"

Harry coughs and looks at each of them, gauging if there's going to be a shouting match or a fight, but Ron has huffed and slouched into his seat. Still glowering distrustfully, he nevertheless waves a hand so Harry may continue. "Okay, right. _'...So, to prove I'm not taking the piss, this is me first letter to your magical school. Hopefully Brutus gets there alright, I dunno if or how birds ask for directions. Whaddya think of Brutus as a name, by the way? Figure it's a better fit for him than for a reform school.'_ Heh, he's not wrong," Harry's eyes widen and he expels a slight chuckle. 

"What's he mean?" Hermione, ever searching for knowledge, questions.

"Oh, well. When I came to Hogwarts, my uncle needed something to tell anyone who bothered to ask about my whereabouts, like his family or the neighbours. So, erm, he told them I'd gone off to a place called Saint Brutus's School where I was caned regularly to ...make me a better person or whatnot."

"Harry, that's awful," Hermione gasps, horrified, hands flying to cover her mouth.

"That's my uncle Vernon," Harry replies grimly.

"And your cousin thinks it's alright to - to make a joke about that?" Now she's becoming outraged.

"...See, 'Mione, I told you," Ron growls.

"No, but that's just it - he knows how awful it was for his dad to say that. But he's making a bit light...," Harry thinks suddenly of Fred. "I dunno, just. It's better to be able to laugh about stuff than be angry and bitter forever, right?"

Ron and Hermione share a glance with one another, and Ginny lifts her chin and looks proud, which makes Harry's heart thump.

"That's a very mature viewpoint, Harry."

"I'll say. You feeling alright, mate?"

"Where's the Harry who screamed at the top of his lungs first night at Grimmauld Place? The one who shouted everyone down because he'd been through hell and he was right and bitter that nobody believed him? What happened to _that_ Harry?" Ginny asks all this with a twinkle in her eye, and Harry makes a face.

"Guess I grew up, Ginny. I've apparently matured, don't ruin it."

"I'm so sorry," she snorts and rolls her eyes.

"Oh I can tell," he grins at her, and hears Ron mutter something along the lines of _what's this then, they're talking and joking again?_ not as if nothing has happened, but rather that what has happened has made Harry and Ginny stronger together for it. Hermione responds to Ron in quiet amusement, though she also appears both ecstatic and relieved; Harry reads a bit of what Dudley tells him about his muggle school, the fact that he plans to go to university but has also been playing rugby and wants to start up a team.

_'...See if I can get all the speedy specky little boys to play, like. May not be into rugby if they're TOO terribly titchy, but it'd be a way for 'em to work stuff out, right. Give a little power 'specially if they've got some big sod at home who makes their life hell.... I also want to take a team to National. Maybe football works better for that, dunno. What d'you think? There's some magic sport you play, I expect. Too bad ol' Brutus can't teach me. There isn't a spell to make you talk to an owl, or have one talk back, innit? Ah well. Hope you're getting on, anyway. Mum came to visit and near had a heart attack when she saw Bru at my place. Expecting I'll get a howling phone up from Dad any day now. Think I may get why you mumbled all that magic at us over the years. Bit fun, innit? Cheers._

_From Dudley, aka Big D.'_

"Blimey," Ron now stares with a bewildered expression on his face. 

"I told you," Harry shrugs slightly again as he offers Brutus a kipper and folds up his cousin's letter. "He isn't bad, really. Not anymore."

"Wonder what happened to change his mind? You did save him from the dementors, but would that have been enough to fully do it?"

"I mean, whatever it is, hasn't done completely," says Harry. "You should've seen him in Diagon Alley - it was like he expected a bomb to go off almost entire time he was walking 'round."

There is a stretch of silence as Brutus ruffles his feathers and dips his beak to drink water --from a goblet that Ginny offers him-- in a stately way. And then,

"Hang on, Harry. Did you just say that you brought your muggle magic-fearing cousin Dudley into DIAGON ALLEY?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The reference to specky little boys playing sports to get an outlet is my nod to Dudley thinking about what he had done to Harry when they were younger, and how that affected him. He's making a concerted effort to give back, to help, and I think a wake-up call about Harry and about magic would help him to do that. 
> 
> I'm really enjoying writing Dudley, and hope you'll enjoy reading about him. Though Ron is skeptical as any best mate would be, I really want to show that Dudders has honestly changed and, like Ginny said, grown up. Ginny is taking the mick out of her big brother (I love writing sibling banter) and Hermione is hoping this will all be good for Harry. Just as I do, really - this story is about healing above everything
> 
> Next chapter you'll hear who else has written :)


	20. Til You Find You're Back In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter and a class
> 
> Discussion of trauma and panic suffered below

Harry thinks about ghosts. Well, he's been thinking about them, because of seeing Fred and because of everyone else lost, but the second letter he receives makes his mind turn over and settle upon the thought of spirits even more fiercely.

It's a letter from Andromeda, Teddy's grandmother, and the envelope contains pictures of the little boy. He's all chubby cheeks and bright eyes and a shock of hair that that is a different colour in each photograph. They do not move, however; Harry recognises Polaroid photos, the ones that are spit out of old cameras and one must shake them to develop the pictures. _'My husband loved his camera,'_ Andromeda writes. _'I found it amongst things when clearing up his office, and I thought, Ted would want me to use it. To capture some joy. So I'm sending what I can of joy along to you, Harry. My daughter and son-in-law spoke so highly, and even meeting once, I saw your strength. I know you'll be a wonderful godfather to our little Ted. And what better way to start than by sending baby photos? He's growing so fast, in part because of the metamorphmagus I think. But children grow so fast anyway. I remember my Dora first learning to walk and then immediately crashing into the kitchen counter.'_ Harry laughs at that, recalling Tonks telling him she was dead clumsy when they met. 

Her mother continues that it's important to keep our memories, both the good and the bad, easy and hard. Because they shape us and allow us to grow. _'I want Teddy to remember his mother and father, through what we know,'_ she says, and ends the letter saying they would love to hear from Harry, and for him to come and visit, if he'd like.

Harry would like, and he also wants to keep in touch with Andromeda, and with Teddy through her. He's grateful she had reached out to him first, because he honestly had not the first idea how to talk to her: _'Hullo, I just wanted to say that your son in law was my favourite teacher ever and your daughter was always really kind and being the godfather of their son I wanted to get in touch. Also your cousin Sirius was MY godfather and the closest thing to a parent that I had once we met'?_ Now that Harry thinks on it, those words don't sound too terribly bad, but he cannot help the onslaught of grief they would likely cause, along with the fact that he and his friends might in fact have been some of the last people (besides Dean, of course) to see her husband alive. That...well that fact could very well be too much to put upon Andromeda.

Besides, it's a cheery little missive that she's sent from herself and Teddy, and Harry shows the photos of the little fellow to his friends. "He's cute, isn't he?" Harry asks, a little unsure. "For a baby?"

"I think he's adorable, Harry," replies Hermione. 

"Yeah, he's alright," puts in Ron. "But I saw Ginny as a baby so I reckon anyone would be an improvement on the way she looked - ouch!" Ginny wallops her brother on the head. Her features soften, though, as she watches Harry's expression whilst he studies this little chubby baby. Almost seems as if he is in awe.

"Blimey, he's my godson," Harry says softly. "Still dunno what being a godfather entails but I'm here for it." He decides to get out some parchment to send a reply, thanking Andromeda for the photos and asking if it's not too much trouble for her to send more. "... There's shops that sell, erm--, wizard baby clothes, aren't there? I mean, I'm sure I can buy him some muggle clothes too." Might as well use his inheritance for something besides buying things for himself.

And with that Harry takes on the role of doting godfather. Hermione looks it up, somehow, and explains that as Teddy's godfather, Harry is responsible for his 'emotional and spiritual growth'. 

And so letters begin to be sent back and forth now, Harry including tidbits about Teddy's parents: _'Your dad was the best teacher, best mentor I ever had, and your mum helped get me out of my aunt and uncle's. Told me she was dead clumsy, but we rode off on broomsticks - a stellar flier, she was. Always wanted to keep people safe, the way your dad did. Stubborn, to boot. Your dad taught me the Patronus Charm to fight against dementors and hopefully one day I can teach you. Til then, chocolate is a big help whenever you're really sad, though I'll let your gram be the one to administer it.'_

***

Focusing on Teddy is a distraction from Harry's own struggling, and a really welcome one. He sends a letter back to Dudley too, and gets down on grading close to the winter holidays - having students write argumentative essays on the rationale of using offensive magic as a deterrent for someone casting dark spells. Creates several scenarios to discuss and utilise in class.

He might have gone a bit too far on some of the examples that he used, including but not limited to the response a person might give if they're captured in the company of friends and tortured for information about one of them - or, how would they react to a horde of dementors being unleashed; what they would do if they possessed a terrifying power, or had witnessed the results of such power wielded by someone else.

"Not even dark magic, necessarily," Harry says in class, pacing back and forth with fingers clenching round his wand, sweat collecting beneath his shirt between his shoulder blades. His jaw tenses. "You might not know what is going on, and intent does a lot, by the way." He has been thinking about being or feeling forced to do things "Because if you don't do something, you can be told that your family will pay the price." There are regulations followed to the letter, but created by those evil or cruel. "Sometimes it's a person in authority saying you're lying, getting you to just go through the motions, telling you that you haven't got to protect yourself from anything because THEY have assurances there's nothing evil out there. But they're wrong." Harry's chest heaves. "...may not be a great big evil about anymore, like Voldemort, but that doesn't mean there's nothing. We have to be constantly vigilant." Harry puts his fingers to his forehead, to his scar as he feels drops of sweat slide into the corners of his eyes, collecting and burning therein.

Pop-eyed expressions stare back at him in each one of his classes; a few slightly older students mutter that Professor Potter has gone off his head. When he speaks thus to Seventh Year, he has Ginny, who starts to run deliberate interference by use of wand drills and discussion of the scenarios without being asked. She is assisted by Luna in this, the Ravenclaw girl's gentle tone and calming words settling Harry as well as the other students.

Eighth Year contains a different sort of assistance. 

Neville and Ron begin to usher people out of the classroom "There, y'know what Harry wants you to think about, oi, now get going."

"Just go ahead to eat, alright?"

Dean and Seamus pick up the sheaves of parchment that contain homework people did; Justin tells everyone that it's good Harry is talking about these sorts of things, and Hannah Abbott offers to get Professor McGonagall if there is a need, her round face concerned. Meanwhile Millicent Bulstrode stands ready to knock heads together if anyone says or does something stupid. Hermione wraps her arms around Harry and presses herself to him in a full-body hug, and Blaise and Malfoy are among the last to exit.

Malfoy's eyes catch Harry's and the platinum blond's head inclines with the barest hint of acknowledgement. Perhaps due to the scenario of being forced into something horrific with no foreseeable way out. The lack of agency. Whatever it is, there's a hint of emotion in a blue-grey gaze that spears into Harry, coalescing with the blurry sight of Draco's arm, the black brand covered by thick roping scars, as stark as Harry's own forehead scar. Both representative of evil, of cruel and oppressive forces. Yet somehow also of strength, of getting beyond the cruelty and terror. Eradicating it from one's life and from one's skin - or so Harry fervently hopes, feeling desperate as his heart is pounding and his eyes sting.

Neville's features are pale and his eyes sorrowful, mirroring some of the emotions that Harry feels, after he ushers most of the other Eighth Years out of the classroom. Harry's stomach clenches as he knows he should not be reacting like this; really, the trouble is over, has been since Voldemort had gone - it's been more than six months. Is he going to go to pieces like this every time he remembers, every time he talks of something that had happened to him and his friends, every time he wants to prepare people for the future? What sort of teacher is he, compared to Professor Lupin, if he cannot handle himself? What sort of example to his godson, or help to his friends and every younger student who comes through Hogwarts?

Harry trembles, hanging on to Hermione, who still holds him tight as he looks at the others, trying to swallow and to breathe. He feels claustrophobic, suddenly, and needs to get away. Even as he feels so weak and awful for it.

But where can he go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is having another hard time here, poor fellow


	21. ...With a Handle in Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frightening images below, remembrances based on occurrences in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, an instance of nausea and brief description of vomiting

Harry draws back from Hermione, looking from her to Ron and Dean, Seamus and Neville. "I - I need to...go," he says in almost a murmur, roughing up his untidy hair and then attempting to smooth it down almost instantly. Hermione stands with him, her gaze steady and serious.

"Where are you going, Harry?"

"It's mealtime, mate," Ron says to him, and he knows they're going to ask him to come and eat, that he's not been eating enough, or sleeping - he's sure someone will ask about that too, the way they've been for weeks. And he appreciates it, really, but he just can't handle it right now. Feels shaky, fragile. 

"I know, Ron. I think I'm... I'm going to go to the kitchens and get some food to take back to the room. You lot can go, I'm sure you're heading to the feast." Dean nods at him, and Neville is still looking sad as he steps over and pats Harry's shoulder hesitantly. 

"Okay Harry."

"Feel better, Harry," Seamus's Irish brogue is almost musical as he pauses at the door to wait for Dean. 

Neville stands next to Harry still as he asks "Want me to take your bag up for you? That way you don't need to worry about putting it down or anythin'."

"... Maybe someone else should take the bag in case you don't remember, Neville," light-hearted ribbing makes him flush and gulp.

"Oh, right." His entire face, up to and including the tips of his ears, is bright red, and Harry finds it within himself to be glad Malfoy isn't here still, as no matter how altered he seems to be, he can only imagine the taunts he could still line up to use on Neville, and he reaches out and takes Neville by the hand with a grateful squeeze.

"Thanks, Nev. I trust you to take me bag, since you're helping Professor Sprout as well. It's got papers in for me to grade and all," still feels strange to say that, baffling to hear those words from his own lips. Hopefully he'll still be teaching tomorrow once (he's sure that this will happen, he can practically hear all his third years blabbering about his freak-out) McGonagall and several other professors hear about Harry Potter almost having a breakdown.

But Neville says gently "Sure, Harry. I'll see you later, yeah?" He follows Seamus and Dean out after Harry hands his bag over and responds with an affirmative. There is a grunt and thump from where Seamus and Dean have gone into the hallway. Harry hopes he is not hearing the sound of someone getting hurt; this has been hard enough. He cannot quite look at his friends as he tells Ron and Hermione he'll see them later, in the Common room probably, but that for now he's going to get some food.

Hermione squeezes his hand. She looks as though she doesn't want to leave him; he remembers her horror, the fear she had felt for him on multiple occasions; _the scream as everything changed, the old woman collapsed, Bathilda's skin and clothes falling away to reveal the shiny scaled muscular reptilian body. How Hermione had flinched into him upon first hearing its speech, the snake tongue that she could not understand and had tried to warn Harry of, somehow, some way -_ it's as if she is warning him again, begging him with her queries and her embraces and her eyes. "Take care of yourself, Harry." If anyone else said that, it would not mean so much, but they have been through such experience, he and Hermione, that he knows he's got to, for her.

"Okay."

***

He's out, then, leaving the classroom after all the rest of them. Ron looking at him the way he had, lips pushed to the side, forehead wrinkling, makes Harry yearn to blurt out about what Fred said to him all over again. He wants to tell Ron, and Ginny, and their parents; most of all he wants to tell George where Fred is, and that he's happy pulling pranks on the students of Hogwarts for however long he will be. But he can't, he mustn't, not until he checks with Fred. 

And so he's running, or rather walking quickly as he can, loosening his tie but still wearing collared shirt and his teacher slacks as he's started calling them. Wonders if he oughtn't just carry a spare pair of joggers round with him so he could switch into something a trifle more comfortable. Even jeans would be an improvement, though he had got it into his head that no professors wear jeans. Has not seen a single one in anything so casual, except for Hagrid - but he of course does not wear jeans either.

Harry thinks about Hagrid now, about going to see him. Yet at the thought of crossing the grounds and thus going so far, it feels so far, somehow, where he will be looked at and whispered about as always, always seems to happen to him; Harry practically runs down a hallway instead, and another. He takes out the Marauders Map, knowing it pretty well (but never as well as Fred and George, his stomach lurches at the thought of them, and his hand almost slips off his wand from sweat). He uses some of the secret wall passages as he traverses down floor after floor.

Harry's stomach seems to have begun to mess with him by alternatively grumbling with hunger and rolling with nausea, and his skin feels clammy from sweat that he hopes isn't too obvious everywhere as he wipes his face and pushes his hair back and tries to deal with everything, tries to breathe and settle down, and be a regular person regulating a ridiculous response he'd had to something HE'D created for class, darn it. That's the worst part, is he should have been able to handle his own assignment, whereas he is blundering down a hallway swallowing to stop the sensation of having to puke, and -

\- and then more memories crash in, and he's trembling and his cheeks are bulging and he's shoving through the door of a loo, he can tell, but he's accidentally flung himself forward a little too hard and grasping the edges of a sink isn't an option when one's abdomen crashes directly into the porcelain so hard that everything goes white.

Harry lets out a croaking gasp and his knees buckle. He's pretty sure his wand clatters to the floor out of nerveless fingertips.

But what he doesn't expect is to hear what sounds like a muttered curse, never mind feel a presence roughly catching him as he falls.

***

"What are you _doing_ here, Potter?"

It's the worst voice Harry could wake up to hear. He groans, wondering if he'd actually passed out and has woken from unconsciousness to be awkwardly splayed across Draco Malfoy's lap, or if this is some sick joke his overwrought mind has decided to play upon him. 

He groans, rolls his head and tries to sit upright as he replies as coolly as he can muster under the circumstances: "I dunno, Malfoy, what does it look like?" He regrets asking that instantly, seeing the way the other's eyes flicker. But he tries to haul himself up, reaching for the sink again, and expels a groan. He isn't certain but it's almost as if fingers cinch round his sides to help him stand again. They relinquish hold as Harry is dry heaving into the sink, though Malfoy is standing, leaning against another sink when Harry turns the faucet on after taking a breath, head bowed low. He splashes water on his face. "Eugh," Harry groans again before cupping his hands, filling then and putting them to his mouth to swish water round with a shudder.

"Nice, I really thought we were past our disgust of one another, Potter." 

Harry rolls his eyes and tosses back before he has a chance to think too hard about it "Dunno how we can be, Draco, since you still -" Harry starts yet cuts himself off at a realisation. "Wait. What are _you_ doing here? Came all the way down to ... second floor for a wee?" He realises where he is, where they are, of a sudden, with a shock. Freezes in place, feeling cold and baffled that his body would have brought him here, specifically, of all places. He clenches his teeth, tamping down the thoughts of his most recent experience in this loo as he notices the still-without-spigots sink. Thinks of the chamber below, and of the water pooling, the spreading blood -

Malfoy snorts, a loud sound in the space quiet save for the single sink spigot and in his own head, the pounding of Harry's heart.

"Natural place, you know."

"...Even though it's a girls' lavatory, eh?" Harry raises his eyebrows, voice a trifle rough. Are they _bantering_ right now? He cannot believe how comfortable this is, almost. Save for the initial moments. Harry actually feels himself begin to relax as Malfoy speaks.

"Oh, sod it, Myrtle's never minded." Malfoy folds his arms across his chest and cocks a brow at Harry. "In fact, she told me once that she offered to share." He legitimately smirks at that, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Harry is utterly nonplussed by everything that is happening to him right now. First Malfoy, even as he isn't directly answering his questions, appeared in the loo just in time to help. And to top that off, he's...yes, he sounds like he is teasing the Chosen One. Is still standing, leaning against the wall with mirrors above the sinks, grey eyes steady on Harry's green. And now holds Harry's wand out to him. His jaw is clenched and chin is jutting forward in challenge, so it seems.

Harry wipes his mouth and clears his throat. He flicks water off his fingertips and cleans his hands before stepping over, accepting his wand from Malfoy's hand. "Thanks," Harry expels a breath. Swallows, opens his mouth, and then says again "... Thank you, Draco."

The blond fellow jerks his chin down in a nod, and if Harry didn't know better he would think his eyes have softened as he steps to one side so that Harry can exit the washroom.

As Potter takes a breath and settles his shoulders, nodding, Draco nods at him in return. "Got it. - Harry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is - progress, I suppose
> 
> Comments appreciated <3


	22. Your Black Cards Will Make You Money

"Pot - Harry," his first name seems to feel strange on Draco's tongue, as strange as it sounds in Harry's ears, but he pauses. Malfoy's not going to ask him to wait, surely, but. "You heading to dinner?"

Not long ago, _what's it to you?_ Harry would have asked, and Malfoy would have sent back an icy reply, but now "...I thought I'd try going to the kitchen, then back to dormitory," he says, and Malfoy's eyebrows lift. 

"Don't want to spend all of dinner being gazed upon by your admirers? 'Oh, precious Potter just walked in, look it's the chosen one!'" he clasps his hands and bats his lashes in a ridiculously hyperbolic emulation of whomever Harry is admired by. 

"You trying to tell me how you feel whenever I walk into a room?" Harry cracks, and then cannot help adding as he sniffs and swipes his hand under his nose "... I've never liked anyone acting that way towards me, Malfoy."

Harry speaks so directly, without any sarcasm or wit, that the snide response Malfoy seems to have planned dies on his lips and in his eyes, Harry sees it. "I would, no one's ever looked at me like that."

Draco's response is instead so quiet that the other isn't completely certain he'd rightly heard it and has no idea how to continue the conversation, even if he wants to. But what Harry does find is that he doesn't actually want to be alone at present, and so says "Well I'm heading for the kitchen, sure the house elves can get up two packages of food easy as one. Wonder if they do a good fish and chip," he muses.

Catches sight of Draco's interest that he hides (or attempts to do so) with a slouch and "Well don't want to deal with hearing that Harry Potter fainted in the middle of the hallway when he tried going to the kitchen on his own."

"I didn't _faint,_ " Harry says. "And why wouldn't you want to hear about that, exactly? Don't tell me you _care_ , Malfoy."

Draco doesn't take the bait, rolling his eyes and falling into step "Of course I don't. Can you imagine all the press and gossiping you'd get? Everyone talking you up? Ugh. It'd be so ridiculous, even more than usual."

"Oh shut up," Harry knocks his shoulder with the other's, not in any anger, more in the way he'd nudge Fred or George as they headed onto the quidditch pitch. He wonders if Malfoy recognises the difference, and then bites his lip as the blond stiffens.

But then Draco lifts a hand and shoves Harry in the shoulder lightly. His pale brow cocks upwards again, as if jesting. "Dunno, I think you really should try and make me, _Harry._ " His first name is spoken as if in challenge, yet Harry feels a laugh bubbling up within, and he lets it go before he can stop himself. They've reached the long set of stairs heading down to the bowels of the castle where the kitchens are, and Harry legitimately grabs onto the banister to keep himself upright. 

Malfoy's pale features crease and wrinkle, he shakes his head with lips twitching slightly. "This is it, he's gone mad," he mutters, but cannot help a smile that threatens to split his own face. He tries to stop it, really he does. "What's so funny?"

"Oh," Harry wipes his eyes. "...This. The fact we're both so tense the way we say each other's names is like a bloody warning before we go to jinx each other or something. It's just so -"

"Stupid?" Draco sneers, even as he's now actually smiling. "Well, no one accused you of being the brightest anyway, Potter."

"What do they say about you?" Harry retorts, and suddenly the mirth is gone from Draco's face. He looks bitter, and automatically moves as if to curl his fingers over the Mark on his arm, the new cuts scabbing over and growing into ropey scars. His eyes flash at Harry now, as if in challenge. 

"You know exactly what they say about me," he grunts, and if it truly is a challenge, it seems half-hearted at best. Mostly, he seems exhausted, and Harry's heart goes out. To less surprise from him than previous, as he's realised he has begun to feel far less animosity towards Malfoy. 

So all he does as they step off the stairs and traverse the hallway to reach the fruit bowl door of the kitchens is clap a gentle hand on a slim shoulder and look into Draco's face with understanding; allowing sorrow to suffuse his quiet "Yeah, Draco, I do know."

***

They receive some food from the kitchens, Harry actually offering to help clean a few dinner dishes in exchange for the house elves making up their platters. ("I used to, well I had to - do this at my aunt and uncle's house," he explains with a shrug as Malfoy makes a noise and stares at him. "Know you're too posh to've ever done anything like it, but here, you dry," and he tosses a dish towel at Malfoy, who looks at it in utter distaste before waving his wand and uttering a drying spell instead, expression screwed up as though he's in pain all the while.)

"...You ought to get over that," Harry tells him after thanking the house elves and moving to exit the kitchen. He'd nodded at Kreacher, who had been in the corner of the room near the fire, taking what looks suspiciously like a blanket over to a hiccuping little elf that Harry thinks he recognises as Winky and tucking it around her stooped shoulders. Dobby had been her friend, as he'd been Harry's, and Harry feels his chest clench at the thought of the loyal little elf. His tone is thus harsher than he'd intended, almost loud. And Malfoy is just looking at him archly. 

"What, Potter? My aversion to cleaning? I'm not a maid."

"And what, they are then?" Harry waves his hand at all the house elves, many of whom seem to be listening as they put away utensils, cups, and platters. "They aren't our servants, Malfoy. Dumbledore paid them, and they've all got the freedom to leave this job if they ask. Aren't any less than us, neither. They're strong and brave and stubborn," he thinks again of Kreacher leading the elves to fight in the name of Regulus; of Dobby telling him _Not kill you, sir! Never kill you! Harry Potter must be safe. Dobby has heard many tales of your greatness, sir; but of your goodness, Dobby never knew -_ "...and you know that, don't you? There's a reason Dobby came to talk to me before our second year." Harry is watching Malfoy's eyes, and sees the intake of breath, how he blinks when Harry speaks Dobby's name. "Yeah, he told me he'd heard all about my 'greatness'. And he was trying to warn me about what was going to happen at school. You told him, didn't you?"

"I - he heard my father," Malfoy's cheeks have gone the palest shade of pink. He shifts in place uncomfortably. His chin goes up. "I never told that little git anything."

"Nothing directly, but he was loyal, and strong, and brave," Harry lunges suddenly, grabbing the front of Draco's robes. "And he was my friend. So don't you call him anything shite like that again." His eyes have filled with tears as he relinquishes hold, as Draco's eyes flicker and he looks ... apologetic. "I'm sorry," Harry apologises to the elves, glancing back to gaze at them. "Please go back to your jobs, go on. Thank you very much for the food," he adds lamely, and is shocked when every elf in the room seemingly snaps to attention.

"We are proud to help Mr Harry Potter and his friends, as we help all students. And we thank sir for speaking up for us," they say. The tenor of their voices melds into something similar to Dobby's, and Harry has to gulp hard and wave before ducking through the doorway quickly so they do not see the tears running down his cheeks.

But Malfoy sees. He sees what the elves' thanks mean to Harry, and Harry's words to them. Doesn't want to, yet he sees; and inclines his head in a stiff little nod, almost but not quite bowing to them. There are stern glances, sharp looks and mutterings, but he did manage (in his way) to -almost- apologise.

Following Harry back to the dormitories, however, on the footsteps of the Chosen One, he scoffs at himself, and on how far he has fallen - Draco Malfoy cannot hide from his own truth.

And the truth is, he knows in his very core that one half-arsed nod to a bunch of house elves is not near enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Harry going to shout at Malfoy until he makes all the necessary apologies, who knows. 
> 
> *I'm so certain that Malfoy gushed about Harry to Dobby and that's why Dobby knew enough about him to want to help starting Harry's second year at Hogwarts, sobs  
> **Dobby is the absolute best and bravest elf, and a wonderful friend. Harry misses him so much. As do I!  
> ***I can't help but feel that Kreacher might bond with Winky over missing their kind master/mistress, she Mrs Crouch and he Regulus
> 
> ...at this rate I may need to find another batch of song lyrics for chapter titles, don't know that this story can end in four ;P
> 
> Reactions appreciated


	23. (So You) Hide Them When You're Able

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is recalling Dumbledore's death and what happened to Dobby. Intense emotional response to death below

It's silent walking back through the castle, or rather, for Malfoy dragging arse behind Harry as he tries to calm himself. There really isn't any reason to go off the way he's done, except that he honestly thinks he understands a little more of what S.P.E.W. had been about, even as it wasn't right for Hermione to take away house elves' choices any more than they'd already been, but her heart was in the right place. Her fury was too. 

Harry just misses when things were simpler. Although, they never truly had been if he's honest with himself; he simply hadn't known everything for a long time, because Dumbledore was _"a foolish old man"_ who loved Harry, and that love... Had it been the thing that made him brave? No, he couldn't stop begging, he never told the entire truth -

_"Stop, please, it hurts, I don't want - I can't any more..."_

_"Just one more swallow, professor, just one more," gasps Harry, hating himself. "This will stop the pain,"_ why did Harry tell him that? Dumbledore made him swear to have him drink all of the potion, but it was for NOTHING! He was so weak afterwards, and then he -

 _"Severus, please."_ He pled, and Snape did as he was asked. Killed him. He didn't stand up against, he didn't find another way... If the headmaster had been stronger; if Snape had - but he wasn't averse to doing an awful thing no matter how much he hated himself.

But had he hated himself? Had he not kept on Dumbledore's side, at his right hand, for Harry's mother alone? He'd done it for Lily, not for anyone else. Not because people and creatures were _dying_. That makes Harry think of Dobby again, of that hopeful look in the house elf's eyes, the shock and wonder as Harry set him free second year. How Harry made him promise not to try to save his life again, but gave the assurance that they were friends; the way he brought Harry gillyweed to help in the Triwizard Tournament, and yes the way he had snuck into Malfoy Manor after everything awful done to him in that place. Dobby came and saved Harry, saved them all -

Harry charges up stairs and through tapestries and along hidden corridors, not noting that Malfoy still follows; not caring either, really. His hands shake on the containers of food, and a harsh whisper precedes the bag rising and floating along. If Harry's eyes weren't foggy he would see the set of Draco's jaw, the slight lifting of his wand, swished and flicked to keep their food from spilling to the floor. He doesn't apologise or speak at all, only stifling a sound as a piercing spike of cold shoots through him and the air shifts as if with wind, but there is none, not even a window open.

He ducks his head and catches the sack of food before moving faster to keep up with Harry who jerks out the password to the Fat Lady and lunges up and through the Common Room door. Is not sure what to expect at all, but it surely is not the group of people on couches and the floor, waiting for him.

Or for them both, perhaps.

*** 

Hermione is reclining against Ron's side and sitting with a book propped against her knees, a quill between her teeth, curls tousled and flyaway as if she'd pushed hands through her hair. Harry's chest clenches at the faint tracks of tears on her cheeks, though her eyes appear dry at the moment. Ron rubs her shoulder as though absently, swatting at Ginny who peers over the back of the couch and flicks bits of parchment and dried ink at him. "Sod off!" He hisses.

Neville, Seamus, Justin, and Dean are immersed in a game of Exploding Snap as Hannah and Ernie attempt to study at a table in the corner where they'd apparently dragged two overstuffed armchairs; a rumpled blanket is puddled on the floor beside Hermione and Ron, but the most striking sight of all is Luna, settled criss-cross on the rug before the fire and gently explaining the finer points of The Quibbler to a (passably interested) Blaise. At least, he hasn't gotten up and left yet. His features remain smooth and cool as ever, with the slightest quirk of a brow the only indication that he is following any of Luna's gentle intonations. He doesn't even flinch as she rests her pair of multihued goggles over Blaise's dark eyes, only expelling an extended huffing sigh in response before lifting the magazine's pages as she taps his wrist with the tips of her fingers.

Something alerts her, though, to Harry's presence. He doesn't think it is any noise, really; but he and Luna have always been close, have shared experience and understanding not necessarily stated, yet nonetheless shared. So he finds himself not surprised when her eyes lift to find his and she speaks gently "Oh hello Harry," as if he doesn't look awful, pale and haggard with puffy red eyes, which probably look comical with the green of his irises, he figures. Yet Luna does not laugh, she never laughs. He hopes the room is dim enough on the whole that no one sees the state of his face, or the fact that he shivers with the wracks of memory, the weight of what he has done... 

_Just a bit more, gasps Harry_

"Hi, Luna," he nods to her, tone rough, and Ginny is standing behind the couch, suddenly; she shoots up, looking at him fiercely, and Hermione whips around with a yelp.

"Harry!" Practically falling off of Ron as well as the sofa altogether - but out of the blanket on the carpet explodes a hand previous to the yowling dart of fluffy orange fur, Crookshanks - as Millicent pushes Hermione back onto the couch to save herself from being squashed. "Are you all right?" Hermione asks, eyes flickering from Harry's face to Millicent's grumbling form and finally the strange sight of Draco Malfoy standing behind her friend without wearing a sneer.

Before Harry can answer "There you are, Potter," one food packet is shoved into Harry's hand as Malfoy takes the other and with a sharp nod and eyebrow twitch (to Blaise, likely, as he is still stretching out along the floor holding an upside-down magazine in front of his face). 

Blaise does look up and lift Luna's sparkly glasses to look at Draco. Something seems to pass between them, and Zabini offers a nod, one shoulder jerking before he stands smoothly and offers glasses and Quibbler back to Luna to "look at again later", which she smiles beatifically at before waving him away. He expels a tiny snort before going after Malfoy.

Harry blinks rapidly as his own gaze follows Malfoy's retreating back. Sniffing just a trifle, and seeing how Ginny has smacked Ron to shove him over and make space on the couch, he wipes at his cheeks with a hand and carries his food to sit.

With everything crashing in on him, memories and thoughts and feelings "I - not really, Hermione," Harry speaks up honestly. He isn't sure how many other people are listening, or if they are; and even so he's so exhausted he doesn't care. All he sees are Hermione's eyes and Ron's lanky arm reaching out to pat his. All he feels is the warmth of Ginny's arms and the soft can't of her hair as she leans into and wraps herself around him from behind, that flowery scent engulfing and stopping his heart's stutter. Their presence helps him breathe and feel safe. 

Safe enough to admit in a murmur because of all of this, after breaking down in response to his own choices, "I...may need to go and...talk to Madam Pomfrey like, erm--,"

"...Like I've been doing?" Ginny's arms tighten and he feels her move to look into his eyes directly. Hers flicker over his face as she says, tone a little rough "It's about time, Harry." Her blazing look, this time, is one of pride; and he thinks, maybe, holds a little relief in it. Whatever it does, his chest feels light, or lighter than minutes ago.

Ron squeezes his arm and Hermione has tears in her eyes, but they both appear settled, and pleased. Or perhaps it's Harry, taking a breath and realising yes, what is happening...what he's doing - he may not want to bother, but he should talk. To someone. So with a slightly broken chuckle, Harry nods "Yeah, it - I know, Gin. It's about bloody time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I don't know what to say about this chapter, Harry's still having a hard time, and doesn't want to put anyone out, but with everything he's realised it might be a good idea to actually take up what Ginny suggested to him about seven chapters ago. He's still feeling a big mix of emotion, but new year means progress.
> 
> I'm incredibly grateful for kind comments I have received, and to you readers who are sticking with this piece or trying it out. Thank you <3
> 
> Here we go 2021!
> 
> Comments appreciated


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